Man Descending
by Gage93
Summary: What I hope is a very human look at Grissom as he ages.  Future fic. Angst warning.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I make no claims on anything. Borrowed, Borrowed, Borrowed, but lovingly borrowed and with no intent to gain anything.

**Spoilers:**There may be a few in the course of the story.

**A/N: **I know I'm supposed to be posting on Nine Lives, but this came out. It's a short WIP that I hope you enjoy.

**Man Descending**

**I**

Any sentiments expressing aging as a beautiful process were, he decided, expressed only by fools. There was no romance in aging. It was a disease, and not a pretty one. Growing old wasn't attractive, nor was it noble. It was hideous and humiliating, and most of all, it was lonely. People he met viewed him differently than they would have before. He was no longer the odd but brilliant scientist, but an old man, a petulant, sarcastic old man. The bitter regrets that followed him around were his best company, better than memories. Memories, beautiful, wonderful, blissful, happy memories were only painful reminders of all that he'd lost.

Getting old had changed him. Previously, he'd wondered if a man could really change, and now he knew. He had. Looking in the mirror, he could only see shades of the man he once was, the man excited about science and possibility, the man who sought and found beauty in the smallest of organisms, a man in constant pursuit of truth and in something bigger and nobler. The reflection held little of that. The man who stared back at him was old and wrinkled. There was no excitement in his eyes, only sorrow and despair, pain, bitterness, anger and the ghosts of all his memories. They were haunted, his eyes. Grumpy more often than not, he spent his days not in search of the truth, but cursing it and the cold hard reality of it.

If the outside world did not see any outward sign of these changes, and some didn't (he often still received requests for consultations or speaking engagements), they could not be unmindful of the physical ones. He was old. He was stiff and he was slow. His skin saw the beginnings of ugly lentigines, liver spots, small and scarce, but slowly appearing never-the-less. The tracks of blue veins along his skin were more visible than a year before, five years before, ten… The skin below his eyes drooped. He had thinned out and not in any way that could be described as attractive, and his hands shook, subtly most often, but more visibly when he got upset. He got upset a lot more often these days.

His prostate wasn't what it used to be. Enlarged now, the frequency with which he had to urinate was astounding, truly, though thankfully, it did not extend to incontinence, not yet. Further, he suffered from nocturia and had to rise at least three times each night to empty his bladder. Where was the poetry in that? Had any of the great and esteemed admirers of aging expressed such a natural and no doubt beautiful process of repeated trips to the lavatory with any admiration in any of their works? Hard to speak of urine or urinary problems in any romantic terms. Perhaps he should pen his own words, a ballad for the aging prostate, an homage to the overactive bladder, or, a tribute to the porcelain bowl he relieved himself in. _Toilet, oh toilet, you take that which I purge_. Perhaps it was too bad he didn't suffer from the leaky bladder; an ode to incontinence would have been his favorite. If he could only get the distressing and heartrending concerto already circling his thoughts out of his head.

Returning to bed after the fourth trip to his friend John that night, he tossed and turned, trying to return to sleep. His mind went through the crossword from the day before. Fourteen across, Chapter of Quran: Surah, Eleven down, Dust Bowl Troubadour: Guthrie, forty-seven across, Ishmael's vessel: Pequod, sixty-eight down, Lincoln's Secretary of War ___ Stanton: Edwin, seventy-one across, Genus of insects including the Cochineal: Coccus, seventy-three across, Allahabad's river: Ganges, eighty-three down, Author __ Richler: Mordecai, eighty-nine across, Contrary to the general rule: abnormal, ninety across, American Naval Commodore in the Philippines: Dewey, ninety-two down, Abraham in _Amadeus_: Salieri. Christ.

He rolled around again, trying to return to sleep, hating that rolling to the right did not cause him to roll into a warm body. The right side was empty, save for his own body occasionally wandering over. Maybe he should go to the bathroom again. He didn't. In an hour, perhaps he may need to go again, but now, now he just needed sleep and a warm body to sleep beside. It was cold in bed. It was lonely. He pulled the blankets around him and let his thoughts wander to memories of her, her laugh, her eyes, her smile, her hands brushing over his skin in comfort or drifting over his skin in exploration, her body moving along with his in passion, her…her…

Somewhere inside of him, he knew that she would understand. She would get this emptiness. He thought about phoning her, just to hear her soft laugh, to hear her words of comfort. Even though she'd left him, she'd still be there for him. He could imagine her weeping for what they'd lost. He remembered how he'd wept himself, cursing his stupidity. _Sara, I need you. Sara, I love you. Sara… _His hand moved to the phone and he dialed, letting it ring once before hanging up and slamming his closed phone back to the bedside table. He slumped back in his bed, but when the phone rang, he dove for it. "Sara? Hi."

It was silent for a moment before Sara's voice came across softly. _"Gil, are you alright?"_

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"_You called and then hung up. Are you sure you're okay?"_

_No. _"I'm okay."

"_Do you want me to come over?"_

_Yes. _"You left me." The response came out abrupt and he winced.

It was silent. He could hear Sara's soft breaths. She sighed. _"I didn't leave you. You pushed me away. I thought this is what you wanted."_

_No. No, I'm stupid. Come over. _He shook his head, gripping the phone. "No, Sara, this isn't what I wanted." He stopped. What he wanted…

"_I'll be right over."_

He waited, waited to hear her car pull up, waited to hear her open the front door, waited to hear her footsteps in the hall, waited for her to wrap her arms around him. When she arrived, he wasn't sure how to sleep. He wanted to spoon her, to hold her tight and not let go. He wanted her to spoon him, to feel her arms around him, gripping him just as hard. Facing her in the bed, he pulled her into his arms, letting her legs wind around his and reveled in the fall of her head to the crook of his neck and shoulder. His hands wandered up and down over her form and then he squeezed tighter.

He woke with his arms around a pillow, squeezing it to his chest. His cheek rubbed against the damp cotton of the pillow case where his tears had fallen. He blinked and stared at the pillow. Damn it, he'd fallen asleep. He tossed the pillow aside and cursed the dream that let him believe that Sara was in his arms again, that same dream his mind conjured night after night, replaying an event from years before, before marriage, before moving in together, before he'd gotten so damn old, before he realized just how much he needed her, a dream from a moment early on in their romantic relationship, the first time she'd come back. She'd come over then, but she wouldn't come back anymore. He was condemned to sleeping in the cold, empty bed alone.

And it was cold. When they were together, he was always the one giving off heat, warming her. Sara had the coldest extremities of anyone he'd ever met. Her hands were always frozen, as were her feet, even in the unbearable heat of a Las Vegas summer. It had been he who warmed her, letting her place those cold hands and feet on his hot skin until they were frozen no longer, but blending with his in shared body heat. In all that time, he'd never realized how she'd warmed him as well. Sighing, he flopped onto his back. As he stared up at the ceiling, he realized he had to go to the bathroom.

_tbc…_


	2. Chapter 2

**II**

His dream began with the first time they had dinner out alone together. It had been two years into their relationship before he finally took her on a date. Changing separately, they had tried to avoid each other in preparation, he dressing in the guest room, she in the bedroom, meeting by the door on their way out.

It was the first time he had seen Sara really dressed up. Previously, the dressiest he'd seen her was in the skirt or pant suits she wore to court. Once he'd been witness to her in a casual skirt. That night she had donned an elegant, black cocktail dress. Her hair had been pinned up, exposing her lovely neck and beautiful shoulders. She had worn little make-up, her skin still healing from scratches and from sunburn. Her left forearm still had a brace on, which he knew she'd hated and didn't want to wear on their first real date, but had accepted as better than the large, bulky cast that had only been removed shortly before. She'd looked stunning.

Two years into a romantic relationship was really too late to take the woman he loved on a first date and he grew to hate how it had come so late. It hadn't bothered him before, but before he hadn't known what he stood to lose. Besides, she had deserved more. She'd always deserved more. That they'd concealed their relationship for so long, as though his love for her was something that had to be hidden, made him so terribly sad. Still, that night she'd been accepting and enchanting. They had exchanged long lingering glances over their table at Caesar's Palace, had laughed softly, ate heartily and took great enjoyment in each other's company. Later, in a bold move, he'd stretched his hand across the table and entwined it with hers. It had been a lovely evening, though he'd had to admit, he enjoyed their afternoons at home alone together far more. Being alone with Sara, living with Sara and surrounded by her presence, able to touch her freely and exist with her had always held the greatest appeal. Quiet moments were his favorite.

Whenever they were together in public, he'd always been anxious to get her alone, or get her home. Socially awkward as he already was, he could not deny the draw of enjoying Sara alone further necessitated early exits in those social situations. It was something that never changed over the years. He remembered those faculty parties when teaching at the Sorbonne. After a few necessary greetings, he would find a hiding place and wait for Sara as she politely withdrew from conversations she'd become involved in and join him. Always smirking as she approached his hiding place, she would take his hand, play with his fingers and chat quietly with him until they decided they'd made enough of an appearance. They would then bid their au revoirs, he would get her coat and they would stroll slowly, hand in hand, through the Latin Quarter and back to their flat. Usually they made love after such occasions and he would fall asleep wrapped around her. In the night they'd shift until he was blanketed by her, her breaths on his neck, her arms around him, her scent drifting up pleasantly into his nostrils.

He breathed in deeply, feeling the warmth of Sara across his back and over his arms. It was so wonderfully peaceful to lie there, wrapped up in her. A breeze hit his back and his eyes blinked open. He reached for her behind him, but could feel nothing but air and mattress, and he bit back a sorrowful moan. He was still reaching for her.

Another draft crossed his bare back, and he shivered. The blanket had fallen from his shoulders and he could feel, in that chill, just how alone he was. Sighing as the dream left him, he pulled the covers back up and tried recapture the quiet moments from early on in their marriage. It was no use. He was awake and feeling even more utterly alone. He could not return to the quiet slumber; his bladder made certain of that.

Returning to his bedroom after his trip to the washroom, he debated trying to return to sleep at all. It was morning and to try to go back to sleep would only yield a great deal of rolling over and sighing, drifting off for moments, reaching for her and waking and losing her all over again. He wanted to return to the wonderful dreams of his slumber and forget the world he lived in, but to try would only lead to frustration. To succeed would only lead to waking and a bitter end to those dreams. Waking left him breathless. He should stay up.

He sat on the edge of his bed and faced the mirror. It was the same reflection of the same haunted old man whose mistakes had stolen everything from him. It was the same old man who spent his nights between bathroom breaks dreaming of every lovely moment shared with his wife. It was the same old man who woke alone every morning feeling the loss more acutely as the oh, so real dreams were ripped from him in waking.

Sighing, he rose again and reached for his robe. Tying the belt, he slipped on his slippers and moved into the living room. Notes were strewn about. Wanting to be all alone, not wanting to travel, he'd quit consulting but chose to forego retirement for awhile and write a textbook. He had to work because the alternative was...to do nothing, and nothing gave him too much time to think. The textbook had seemed like a good alternative. Using his own research, he could work out of his own home and not deal with anybody short of a couple of experts in other fields and his editor every now and then.

Passing by all of the notes, he padded into the kitchen. Dishes were scattered across the counter, left there from the day before. So clean for so many years, in the past year he'd developed an apathy for cleaning up. Who was he cleaning up for anyway? The crumbs could feed any insects that chose to dwell in the condo.

Shaking his head, he wondered just when, in the past year, he'd added slovenly to his list of new vices. Glancing around the mess again, he sighed, supposing he really should clean up. He moved to open his dishwasher when the phone rang. He sighed again. He knew who it was. He'd called her at home the night before and hung up quickly when it wasn't she who'd answered.

His hand moved to the phone, shaking slightly as he pressed the talk button. "Hello?"

"_Hey, Gil." _Her voice paused and then continued softly, _"Derek said that you called."_

He cursed call display despite years of enjoying how he could screen his own calls or use it to help with a case. He cursed again, thinking about how Derek probably enjoyed his quick reaction in hanging up. "Yeah, uh, it's about my research." It wasn't a complete lie. He had phoned, in part, to get her consultation on some notes, though it was a thin line between being the truth and being an excuse.

"_Oh."_

"Yeah, so, let me go get my notes, here."

"_Gil, are you alright?"_

"Yeah." He paused. "Yeah."

"_Gil..."_

"I'm alright."

There was a long pause. _"Why don't I come over and we can look at the notes together?"_

He closed his eyes. "No, it's okay; you can answer my questions over the phone."

"_I'm coming over." _He heard the click ending the call and he sighed again. His eyes glanced around the mess in the kitchen and he hastily began to clean up.

The mess was larger than usual. Nick had come over the day before with some questions for him. Nick came over often, ostensibly to talk about bugs, but mostly, Grissom suspected, to check up on him. And, he'd been short with Nick. Poor Nicky, he thought, working so hard to understand. Having been the self-appointed bug man after Grissom's departure, Nick took to studying what he did not really appreciate. He worked hard, but would never be a natural. When Sara had returned to the lab, Grissom knew that Nick's newly self-appointed role as bug man began to falter. While he still wanted the role, it was Sara who was able to field more questions with quicker response. Sara could step in and easily name the insect and stage of development, where Nick still had to research it. Poor Nicky, wanting to fill in his shoes, to be the big man and the bug man, still trying so hard to impress.

Sara really held a great advantage, and not just from being married to an entomologist. She had watched him work for years, questioning him, learning to understand, applying the work herself… He had given her an entomology text years ago which she had read, committing all of the contents to memory, her mind like a child's in that it was such a sponge. She was quick to comprehend, and years of glancing over his shoulder to watch him work and working with him later placed her at that speedy advantage. Poor Nicky, still trying to prove himself, doing it mostly, Grissom thought, to impress, to be that man to whom everyone looked up, and perhaps also, now, to atone. Likely, in the beginning, Sara had studied to impress as well, but also, he thought, to share in something he loved. And Sara's razor sharp mind had picked everything up quickly. Nick's had not. Even now, years later, Nick still poured over entomology text books in search of answers. Poor Nicky, for bearing the brunt of his frustration.

Plates from his lunch with Nick cleared and placed into the dishwasher, Grissom set himself to the task of washing up. He showered quickly and dressed himself so that he was presentable but still comfortable. He was towel drying his hair when the doorbell rang.

His hair still damp, he opened the door to a smiling, young woman. She smirked at his appearance as she entered. Colby Bernhardt, tall, brunette and really, very beautiful, was an anthropologist who had worked with him when he had consulted for the government. Though she still traveled and consulted, she had decided, for reasons he could not fathom, to transfer her home base from Missoula, Montana to Las Vegas. Occasionally she helped to consult on his textbook, her own research a wonderful complement to his. He let his eyes wander over her. She reminded him so much of Sara, and she was so young. He wondered if she'd yet turned forty.

"Good morning," she greeted. "I brought breakfast."

He took the paper bag from her extended arm and led her to the living room. Pulling out a muffin, he bit into it and took a cup of coffee from the cardboard tray in her other hand. "Thanks."

"Did you really call about work?"

"Yes, that trip to Rapa Nui…"

"Why did you hang up on Derek last night?"

He frowned. Why did he? Maybe because the handsome young man treated him as though he was some old geezer and would have said something to remind him of that had he chosen to stay on the line. The young man was always offering to help with things, but doing it in such a way that implied Grissom could not do those things himself. Derek was also always so smug around him. He hated the patronizing attitude. Sure he was old but did the younger man have to point that out? He could see it. Colby could see it. Did the young man need a photograph to prove it? How, he wondered, did Colby ever become involved with a photographer anyway? He glanced up at Colby, noticing she was watching him and he remembered she'd asked him a question. "I didn't want to speak with him."

She smirked. "So you hung up on him?"

"If," he continued, "you had been home, he would have given you the phone directly, as I'm sure he had not wanted to converse with me any more than I did with him. Since he chose to answer, I knew you were not available. I also knew he would surely inform you of my call either way, but would derive more pleasure this way. As far as I can tell I was correct on all counts."

Colby let out a small laugh, confirming his suspicion in the pleasure Derek got in his abandoned call. Grissom frowned and took another bite of his muffin. He glanced out of the side of his eye to watch her long, delicate fingers lift up a piece of paper. "What do you see in him anyways?" he asked bluntly and without thinking, hardly able to believe he'd voiced what he'd found himself wondering. It wasn't like he even cared. It was a passing thought, now vocalized. God, he hated how he forgot to sensor things these days.

Colby's eyes shot to his. Her hand carefully placed the sheet of paper down. She looked away. "He's intelligent and he's handsome. His photographs are works of art. They're really so beautiful and they depict such longing," she paused and looked over at Grissom, "and, he's nice to me."

Grissom nodded. To each her own. He'd long wondered what Sara had ever seen in him. Colby's hand moved to his thigh and he froze. "I'd leave him if you asked me to," she continued softly.

He stared down at the thin hand on his thigh. His eyes glanced up to hers quickly and back down to her hand. _No,_ he thought. _No. _Where did this come from? It took him by complete surprise. Had he ever given her any reason to indicate…? Just because he thought her boyfriend was an ass, didn't mean felt anything for her. Perhaps Derek had a point in treating him the way the young man did. Perhaps Derek had seen something he'd missed. He knew, to a certain degree, that she admired him, possibly even revered him. It had surprised him to discover that she had minored in entomology back in college because of him, but for her to want him, to be attracted to him…to desire him… And he'd used her, to a certain degree. He'd used that veneration to feel younger and a little less alone.

_No. _It felt wrong. Young as she was, her hand on his thigh made him uncomfortable. It should be so easy to fall into something with her, to be absorbed by her youth and her beauty and forget everything else for a few moments, but it wasn't. It wasn't what he wanted, not at all. Even after not having been touched for so long, it did not arouse him. He wanted Sara, only Sara.

Her thumb brushed over his knee. He began to shake slightly. Colby was young and beautiful, and even if he'd ever been tempted, which, to be perfectly honest, he hadn't, there was no desire, no comfort in this. Her touch felt wrong, so wrong, wrong, he knew, only in that it wasn't Sara's. How could Colby desire someone so old anyhow? She was so young and he was so old and he could never be unfaithful to Sara. "I'm in love with Sara," he blurted out, grasping Colby's wrist with his hand, now steady, and gently removing her hand from his thigh.

Colby was silent for a moment. Then, she turned to him and spoke softly again. "She's gone, Gil."

He closed his eyes. "I know." He knew. Did she not think he didn't feel it in every nerve ending in his body? Sara had left him. He had lost the love of his life. His body began to tremble again.

He could feel Colby's eyes on him. "Still," she began softly, "it doesn't change anything, does it?"

He shook his head. "No, it doesn't." His eyes opened.

She shook her head. After the long, slow shake, her eyes landed on his wedding band, still on his left hand. "I always knew that about you, you know, how much you loved her, still love her. I was envious of your relationship." One of his eyebrows arched upwards. Colby let her lips curl up into a soft, wistful, beautiful smile, and just then, he could see the beauty in longing. He understood what had attracted her to her young man and he understood the virtue in the young man who chose to depict such longing in his work. Colby looked down and finished softly, "When we were off consulting somewhere and you spoke of her, you always treated her name so tenderly."

He was silent. He did not know what to say to end this painful conversation. Colby was silent beside him, staring down at her lap. He had to say something, but he'd never been good in these situations. Usually he said the wrong thing and left the other person hurt or angry or both. "What could you seen in an old man anyways?" he asked half jokingly, hoping his words would add some levity.

Colby let out a short laugh. Still not looking at him, she leaned back against the sofa, and closed her eyes. "You aren't old yet, Gil. You're only in your sixties and you're still very attractive. You're just more…distinguished now."

"I'm old. My skin is beginning to wrinkle, I have permanent bags below my eyes, ugly liver spots are showing up on my skin and I make several trips to the bathroom in the course of one day."

Shaking her head, Colby opened her eyes and finally looked at him. "Boy, you sure paint an attractive picture of yourself. You're a lot younger than you think you are. Most of it's in your head, Gil." She tugged on his trembling arm and held it out in the air before them. Her hand cradled his. "This is not an old man's arm, Gil. You're skin is a little looser, but you've lost weight from not taking proper care of yourself. You're aging, sure, and aging faster because you've lost so much of that love of life you used to possess, but you're still incredibly handsome."

He pulled his hand from hers, frowning at how she'd begun trying to indulge him. The conversation was already well out of his comfort zone and he moved to return to the topic of their research when she spoke softly. "I've always been attracted to you."

He glanced at her, wanting to scoff but seeing only sincerity in her eyes, and he didn't want to mock that sincerity. "Always?"

She let out another laugh. "What can I say? At first it was your brilliance, Dr. Grissom, and how you treated your craft with such affection and such tenderness. I also loved how odd you were. You really were very odd. Then, after getting to know you, it was the excitement you showed in the smallest of things." Colby paused and her voice grew soft. "And, it was how you spoke of your wife, how apparent your love for her was. I guess I began to yearn for that."

Grissom shook his head, scarcely able to believe what he was hearing. In all those years, he had no clue. He'd never… "But you never…"

She looked away quickly. "How could I? How could I tell you, or do anything to try to take you from her?" Her eyes turned back to his. "You were this amazing couple and I couldn't be the one to break you up. You adored her, and really, so did I. Besides, if in some insane moment of stupidity, you had risked what you had with her for me, you wouldn't have been the man I thought you were. I fell in love with the man that you are."

He shifted away. "But I'm…"

"Still in love with Sara. I know." She paused. "I've always known you'd never feel for me what you felt for her." Standing up, Colby turned her back to him. He watched as her hand came up over her head and her fingers combed through her hair. Her hand dropped to her side and her shoulders drooped forward. After a moment, she turned back to him. "It's okay. Forget it." She sat down picking up the paper she'd held earlier. "Let's get back to work."


	3. Chapter 3

**III**

Closing the door behind Colby as she exited the condo, he slumped against the wall. His hand came up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He could feel the beginnings of a migraine coming on, no doubt triggered by the stress of their earlier conversation and the emotions it had stirred.

His vision was blurred. His eyes hurt. The left side of his head had begun to pulsate. He felt nauseous. He was beginning to sweat and it was too damn bright in the room. Stumbling towards the bedroom, he fumbled inside the dresser and pulled out his migraine medication, removing two small tablets of rizatriptan from the blister pack. He then moved to the kitchen, placed the tablets on the counter and filled a cup with water, placing the cup next to his pills. A trembling hand lifted the pills to his lips. The other hand, also trembling, followed the movement with the cup. He swallowed, slammed the cup back to the counter and then began to stumble around, turning off lights and closing blinds before he flopped down on his sofa.

When Sara was with him, she used to lie him down, bring him his medication and his water and go about darkening the room for him. Then, she would gently lift his head and sit, placing his head back in her lap. She would let her cold fingers sift through his sweaty hair for awhile, pushing it from his forehead so that she could place a cool cloth to his brow. Her fingers would move to his temples, rubbing in soft, soothing circles, alleviating some of the pain. Every so often he would feel her press her warm lips to the small space of skin above the cloth, over the droplets of perspiration on his hairline.

Sara was the best remedy for his migraines. He missed her calm, low tones, the gentle press of her fingers, her warm lips, the comfort of her lap. That remedy was taken from him, and to add salt to the wound, since Sara had left him, his migraines had increased, exponentially. From stress he knew, emotional stress and a failure to exercise, not to forget the lack of a proper diet as well, but mostly from stress, the stress of living without her. _Sara, the remedy. Sara, the prevention. Sara…_

Lying back and closing his eyes, he let himself think about her soothing motions until he was almost able to feel them, her middle fingers pressing in on his temples, her index and ring fingers pressing lightly on either side, the soothing circles, her soft voice, her scent, her lips, her compassion, not only in this, but in all things. She was the best remedy for everything, one he'd let in too late and lost too early. _Twelve years, only twelve years._

He let himself drift into thoughts of their first meeting. She had strolled into his seminar, young, confident and slightly cocky. As she entered, moving hurriedly, but also with grace, he'd found himself noticing her above all others. Dressed in slacks and a sleeveless blouse, she had let her clothing accentuate her exquisite features, the slim slacks displaying the curve that led to her wonderfully long legs, the blouse revealing her beautiful, delicate shoulders. Her hair had been tied back into a ponytail, exposing her lovely neck. He'd felt an immediate pull to her, the stirrings of attraction.

Seated before him, she'd listened to him speak, her brown eyes bright and beautiful, her head cocked slightly to the side, a pursed smile he could not read on her lips. Then, she'd aimed a barrage of questions at him, one after another, challenging him and drawing his attention to her further. Soon it had seemed like they were the only two in the room, engaged in some sort of peculiar dance, two boxers sparring in a ring, exchanging jabs from afar, circling, but not quite closing in. Then, for some reason, she had abandoned the questions on entomology and began stumbling through questions on anthropology. She had faltered, her questions not quite so challenging, but thought up and blurted out quickly, he could tell. Her shy smile had told him as much and he'd been charmed. He was further charmed when she left him with a dazzling smile that revealed an endearing gap between her front teeth. The sight had caused an ache in him he could not categorize. Lord help him if he hadn't already begun to fall in love with her. Lord help him if he hadn't already begun to live in denial.

After an early seminar in which they both had attended the following day, he had found himself strolling San Francisco with her, answering more questions. He'd enjoyed responding to her inquiries and listening to her insight. He'd enjoyed being with her and getting to know her, so much so that they'd walked until his feet hurt, and then, they'd walked some more. A damp, overcast day, he'd been delighted to discover how her hair, let down that day, curled and frizzed in the moisture. When she had tried to comb it down with her fingers, and when she'd tucked errant curls behind her ear, he'd wanted to grasp her wrist, stop her, and stare at her in her loveliness, whispering of how enchanted he was by the sight of her hair altering into a mess of endearing tangles. He hadn't wanted that afternoon to end.

It did end though. It had to, and not as he'd secretly wanted. Though he had been attracted to her, very attracted, and she, he believed, to him, she was so young and he had not been in a place where he was ready to begin a romantic relationship with a woman in another city. He had befriended her instead, offering her a trust that he had placed in very few, and none so soon. Thinking back, he couldn't help but regret not taking that leap, having those years with her, battling everything they battled through together. Perhaps they hadn't been ready. Perhaps the strength of what they'd had would not have been so strong had they not had to fight so hard for it. Perhaps all of the yearning, and the patience, and the waiting and watching the other still wait had demonstrated how important it was to both of them. Perhaps the holding onto hope despite everything that had occurred between them, and the commitment to one day finding it was what had allowed it to become so great, but perhaps…perhaps…perhaps, they would have found it anyway.

She was the love of his life. She'd burrowed her way into him, stolen his heart, captured his soul and merged with him, filling every hole he'd ever had inside of him. It happened without him realizing. Years of harboring feelings for her had left him yearning for a life with her. Years of denial had him seeking his life elsewhere, ignoring what was obvious to her and only admitting to it later when it had become too much and when he'd hoped vocalizing what he'd then realized would help to rid him of the need that had threatened to consume him. Even before they were together, she'd shown him how to live again, and he'd found himself more open to life and to laughter, to dinner and dating and anything but taking a real chance with her. It would cost too much to allow himself to be open to the idea of her. It had taken him a long time to trust in it, to allow himself to become vulnerable to her, to take what she'd offered. It had been wonderful, for years it had been wonderful. For twelve years it had been wonderful, but that was all they had together, twelve years, twelve years of marriage, and then, they'd lost it and he'd lost her. Fourteen months ago, she had walked out the door and out of his life, crippling him. As it turned out, it was a very high price to pay.

Still slightly nauseous, his head still hurting and now filled with the music of that damn concerto of his dreams, he began to feel tired. Shifting on the sofa to a more comfortable position, he let himself drift to the tender, heartbreaking music, lulling him to another time.

Costa Rica. Finding her. Watching her from behind. Nervous and swallowing the lump in his throat. Waiting. Holding his breath, not only in anxious anticipation, but in seeing her beautiful form once again. Watching her camera lower. Seeing her turn. The shock. The quirk of her small smile. The emotions threatening to spill over her features, good emotions, ones that let him know she still loved him, still wanted him and perhaps, still needed him. Moving to her, taking her in his arms, kissing her…holding her. Explaining to her. Sharing with her. Discovering with her. Marrying her. Curling up with her in their bed at the station each night, making love to her and again, holding her tightly in his embrace. Finding peace. She had led him back to the rainforest.


	4. Chapter 4

**IV**

Through the fog of his migraine, he heard the doorknob rattle as it turned. He kept his eyes closed, even as he heard the door swing open and the intruder step inside, trying to keep as quiet as possible. He listened to the soft, quiet footfalls as the intruder padded over towards him. A sigh fell from her lips. He kept his eyes closed, wanting to open them, but afraid. He felt the sofa dip as she perched herself onto the edge. Her soft lips placed featherlight kisses on each of his eyelids. Her thumb brushed over his brow and her lips followed. Her fingers sifted through his grey hair. She was there. Someone must have called her.

He took a deep breath. Slowly, his eyes opened. "Sara," he whispered, his mouth dry and his voice horse. He felt as though he was parched and she was the only thing that could nourish him.

Her fingers continued to comb through his hair. "Hey."

"You came back."

"Hmmm."

He wanted to ask why, but couldn't form the words. He closed his eyes and let himself get lost in her tender caresses. "I missed you," he whispered.

It was silent. Slowly, he allowed his eyes to open. There were tears in hers. She was nodding. "I missed you too."

He nodded and closed his eyes again. Her palm fell flat against his forehead. "Migraine?" she asked, softly.

He nodded. Her hand swept over his forhead and back into his hair. "God, Gil, what happened to you?" He could hear the tears in her voice.

"You left," he whispered and paused and then added, "stay."

"Gil..."

"Lay with me." He opened his eyes and gazed into hers. "Please."

She nodded, her eyes full of tears. He shifted so that she could lay her long, lean body next to his. He kissed the corner of her eye, where a tear rested. His arm cradled her head. He almost wept aloud when she nuzzled into his neck and wrapped an arm around him. His fingers ran up and down her arm. His hand tugged on her shoulder and pulled her in tighter, holding her to him. He shifted again and a wave of pain washed over him, beginning in his neck, and running along his spine to his lower back. His eyes shot open and he was immediately struck by the absence of her. His heart dropped from his chest. Another dream, this one his own creation. Fuck.

He lay on his back, trying to allow his brain a moment to process. How many times had he dreamed of her coming back? He wanted to close his eyes and forget that dream, replace it with a new one, perhaps of their less proud moments, arguing with her, voices loud, she spinning on him in anger, wild and absolutely beautiful...

He was in so much pain. His heart hurt. His body hurt. He felt disoriented and alone and old. Immediately upset with himself for allowing himself to fall asleep on the sofa, he twisted and stretched, cracking his back and trying to rid his body of the aches settling into his aging body, but stopped quickly when he'd found no relief. His muscles and joints were stiff and sore in unison. His shoulders hurt. He was not sure if he could stand, a quick spasm striking at his lumbar as he shifted. He felt slightly dizzy, his head swimming. Staring up at the ceiling, he wondered if he could even move.

Slowly the pain began to ease and his mind moved onto other considerations. He did not know how long he'd slept, only that now that some of the fog had cleared, he felt well rested for a change. Aside from the dizziness of waking, he felt fairly good, or as good as to be expected for someone in his position.

He remained lying still, yet afraid to move lest the aches of his muscles and joints should return. Slowly his head turned sideways, his eyes moving to the coffee table to discover his notes still strewn about, reminding him of the work he had not accomplished. The scant revisions he'd made with the aid of Colby earlier had not amounted to a good morning's worth of work.

Frowning, he ignored the lack of work accomplished over the course of the morning and into the afternoon and turned his eyes back to the ceiling. He lay there, staring up, trying not to think about Sara and failing.

The sound of the doorbell stirred him. Slowly he pushed himself to a seated position. Then, a knock sounded, and another, and then, another. The insistent raps on the wood of his front door had him grumbling as he braced his arms beside him. More knocks sounded, in quicker succession, impatient raps from an impatient fist. He stood and swayed and sought his balance. Hands on his hips, he arched his back forward, stretching out his tight muscles. Slowly he lumbered over to the knocking door.

Turning the lock, he opened the door and stepped back as Catherine brushed by him. "You look terrible, Gil."

He closed the door and faced her. "Hello to you too, Catherine."

"Don't hello me. Did you forget we had plans for dinner?"

He let out a long sigh. He hadn't forgotten. How could he when they went out once a week and she called him the night before to remind him? He just hadn't realized how late it was or how long he'd slept.

"I waited at the Eclipse for an hour, Grissom. I tried calling you but you didn't answer."

He shot a quick glance over to his cell phone. As if on cue, it let out a shrill buzz to let him know he'd missed a call. He sighed again. "I didn't forget. I fell asleep. I'm sorry."

Catherine's eyes softened. He watched as she cast her eyes over him. He fidgeted, imagining what she'd see, his disheveled appearance, ruffled hair and rumpled cloths. "How long did you sleep?"

His eyes closed. "All morning and I guess, all afternoon."

"Gil…"

He hated the sympathy in her eyes and in her voice. He was tired of everybody trying to draw him out and talk to him and get him to open up. "What do you want, Catherine? I had a nap. I'm old."

"You're not that old, Gil, though God knows you look it."

"Why are you here, Catherine? To insult me, or was it to check up on me? Nick yesterday, you today, who shall I expect tomorrow? Al? Greg? Ecklie?"

Catherine let out a rueful laugh. "You're lucky Jim decided to retire out east, otherwise I'd send him out here, but yes, I came to check up on you and to see why you stood me up."

"And I told you."

"Yeah, you fell asleep." Catherine glanced over at the papers on the coffee table. "Were you working?"

He shook his head. "Colby Bernhardt was over earlier, helping me with some revisions…" he began, but trailed off when he noticed Catherine's smirk. His voice rose. "But I put it to rest after she left."

"Colby Bernhardt was here?"

"Leave it alone, Catherine. She helped me with work and then she left and I had a headache so I laid down."

Catherine's smirk died. "Headache?"

He nodded.

"Migraine?"

He nodded again. "Look, thanks for checking up on me, but I'm fine. I fell asleep and I'm sorry. Can we have dinner tomorrow instead?"

"Have you eaten anything?"

"I'll whip something quick up. I don't feel up to going out. Tomorrow?"

Catherine sighed. "Yeah, sure."

"Good. I have to get back to work so I can at least accomplish something today."

Catherine's eyes moved back over to the mess of notes. "Have you gotten anywhere on the textbook?"

He shook his head again. The truth was that he did very little work each day, his mind lapsing into thoughts of Sara, earlier notes reminding him of their years of work together at the lab and their time together in Costa Rica, later notes reminding him of anecdotes he used to share with her when he came home from a consulting job. Even looking over images of specimens reminded him of her; the best images having been captured by Sara.

"Why don't you retire, Grissom? Sixty-five is a good age for retirement."

Retire? And do what? Spend his days padding around the condo, thinking of Sara. At least work offered some moments where he didn't have to think of her, however brief those moments might be. Work reminded him of her, but it was also his only means of escape.

He scoffed and watched as Catherine rolled her eyes. She sighed, and suddenly he felt the need to flee, finding a very convenient excuse in his enlarged prostrate and overactive bladder. "Excuse me for a moment, Catherine."

Once he'd relieved himself, he took a moment to collect himself. He returned to the living room and watched as Catherine approached, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I'm worried about you. You aren't taking care of yourself. You really do look terrible."

"I'm sixty-five, Catherine. I'm old."

"You never used to think of sixty-five as old, Grissom. It's just a number."

"I didn't realize what a number meant until I reached it."

Catherine shook her head quickly, her voice rising. "Sixty-five isn't old, Gil and you look ten years older. You're aging quicker than you should be because for some reason you don't want to live anymore…" She choked back some tears and shook her head again. "You only look and feel this way because you let yourself get this way. This," she waved her hands out in front of her, indicating his body, "comes from not taking care of yourself, not eating, not sleeping and not caring whether or not you live or die. You're aging faster because you want to. Sixty-five is an age where a lot of men become distinguished and charming and handsome, all of which you could qualify for."

Distinguished. There was that word again. Distinguished: to be dignified. There was no dignity in this, in growing old and not recognizing yourself, in being so lonely… He frowned. "None of which I am, right Catherine?"

"Only because you're so hell bent on making an early exit and the rate at which you're going…"

"I get it, Catherine. You've made your point."

Catherine shook her head. "Yeah, for some reason I really don't think it's coming across. You only see people when they force themselves upon you. You barely eat. You've gotten thin. You have terrible sleeping habits and unattractive bags below your eyes. I barely even recognize you, some days." She stopped and he raised a brow.

"Go on; tell me how my habits have aged me. Tell me how sad and lonely I am. Tell me as though I've lost my ability to notice."

She let out a small, woeful laugh. "You're really miserable, you know. At least your mind's still sharp. I can still recognize it beneath all of the cynicism you've been portraying. Your misery has not affected your cognition."

"No, cognitive processes still in tact. I'll have you know that my episodic memory, semantic memory, and short term memory are also still in tact. It would appear my brain hasn't caught up with my body in terms of aging. I haven't lost my mind yet," he responded, his tone biting. He didn't believe his own words though. He knew he was losing it, descending into some sort of madness with every thought of Sara. "Come back later. Maybe you won't be so disappointed."

"Stop it, Gil."

"Really Catherine, I've willed my body to shut down, haven't I? Only so long before I conquer my mind and get it to follow."

"Stop, Gil. This isn't you. I don't recognize you like this."

"How could you?" he asked, and then his voice died off. "I don't know who I am anymore."

Catherine stepped closer. "You're Grissom, a scientist, a good man who takes care of others and of himself. You're my friend and I hate seeing you like this!"

Grissom stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest. "Are you finished?"

"Not quite. What happened to you Gil? Ever since Sara…"

He turned away sharply. "I don't want to talk about that."

"Gil…"

He turned back, his eyes stinging. "Stop!" he cried out, his voice booming across the living room.

She stopped. Her eyes were filled with shock. She reached for him, but he stepped back."

"Gil, you have to move on. You're killing yourself."

"Stop!"

She shook her head. "I won't. Gil…"

"She left me, Catherine!"

He felt himself crumple and tumbled back to rest against the back of the sofa. His voice grew soft and pained. "She left me."

He didn't stop Catherine from reaching for him again. Her hands landed on his upper arms. Her eyes stared into his. "She didn't want to leave you, Gil." There were tears in Catherine's eyes and in her voice. "She never wanted to leave you. She loved you."

He dropped his head forward. "He took her from me."

Catherine let go of his arms and used one hand cup his chin and lift his head back up. "She died, Gil. She was killed." He tried to twist his head from her hand, tried not to look in her eyes, but Catherine held firm. "She died and you're still blaming her and Nicky and Detective Craig and everybody else who wasn't there and didn't find the evidence to solve the case. She didn't want to leave you. She loved you more than anything. She loved you with more ferocity than anyone I've ever met."

Her hand dropped from his chin and his head fell forward. His shoulders shook. Catherine pulled him into her embrace and he held on tight as that morning came back to him.

He'd been at home, in between consulting jobs, preparing breakfast for Sara and hoping she would get home in time to eat it fresh. He'd been washing his hands in the kitchen sink when there was a knock on the door. Drying his hands on a towel, he'd moved to the door and opened it to find Nick, eyes cast down, standing before him. Behind Nick had been a rookie detective, Taylor Craig, looking nervous. Grissom's heart had immediately stopped. Nick had looked up, his eyes full of sorrow and guilt and Grissom's stomach had dropped. _No. No. No. _It had become a mantra in his head. _No._

_No, _he'd thought, _don't say it; __please don't say it. _From the look on Nicky's face, he'd whispered it out loud. _No. Not Sara. Not Sara. Not his Sara. No._

Slowly, Nick had told him what had happened. Sara had gone back to a scene after it had been released, searching for a key piece of evidence that would nail her suspect. The suspect had also returned to the scene. Sara had died alone, on the cold pavement of a dark street, bleeding out from a wound behind her ear, her head bashed in by a piece of one-by-six ripped from a crate in the alley, no prints on the weapon or the crate, but several wooden splinters implanted in her skull that Doc Robbins had removed, one by one. Nick, who'd been promoted to supervisor after Catherine had left, had sent Sara to the scene with a rookie patrolman.

_No,_ he'd thought. _No. God, no. _His legs had collapsed beneath him. Nick had caught him, but he'd shoved his former student away. In that one moment, all he'd been able to think of was Nick should have known better than to send her to a scene with only a rookie patrolman. Out of anyone, Nick should have known. It was bad enough she had to deal with a rookie detective, but to add another rookie who hadn't learned proper protocol. He hadn't forgiven Nick, not for sending her to the scene, nor for not finding enough evidence to charge anyone with her murder, but mostly, he hadn't forgiven Nick for being the one to inform him that he'd lost everything.

They'd known who'd killed her, but hadn't had enough evidence to lay charges. The man they'd more than suspected was descended from a one time prominent Vegas mob family, Tony Salieri. Antonio Salieri, the same name as the composer, the one who, in the film, _Amadeus_, had driven Mozart to madness. The film had been based on a rumor and had taken many liberties with history; there no evidence that Salieri killed or conspired to kill Mozart. The composer Salieri never drove Mozart to madness, but the Tony Salieri who'd murdered Sara fourteen months before had been slowly propelling Grissom to that state.

The scene Sara had originally been called to had been a hit in an alley behind the Hotel Monaco. It hadn't taken long for Tony Salieri to appear on her radar, past hits of the same nature being credited to him, witnesses seeing him follow the victim out of the casino, surveillance backing up witnesses' statements. There was no hard evidence of him committing the murder though, the gun he'd used wiped clean and disposed of, no trace of him on the victim or in the alley. Sara had returned to go over the scene again when she'd been surprised and killed. Only a couple minutes earlier, she'd called Nick to let him know she'd found something. Her kit, containing the evidence she'd believed would bring them that much closer to nailing Salieri, had been stolen. Surveillance video had placed Salieri at the scene, his form disappearing from Hotel Monaco's casino surveillance just before Sara was attacked. That evidence only led to supposition. He could be placed in the area on both occasions, but not actually in the alley. Needing more, Nick and Greg had searched Salieri's apartment, but Sara's kit and any other evidence of her attack had been disposed of. They'd gone after Salieri with a vengeance and still, had come up with nothing.

Grissom had found out most of the details from Nick, who'd always shown such empathy for family members of victims, especially ones he'd felt connected with, and had never known when it was best not to discuss things. To his credit, Nick had stopped short of telling Grissom everything, so Grissom got the rest from Catherine, who'd still managed to keep an ear out on the goings on of the crime lab, likely through Vartann. Knowing she had ways of knowing such things, he'd pressed her until she had informed him of everything she had heard. Knowing who killed Sara and knowing he was free was worse than not knowing. Grissom had lost everything and the men he'd taught and trained hadn't been able to find the evidence to put away the man responsible.

Grissom blamed everyone, Nick for sending her to the scene and for giving the next of kin notice, Greg for not finding anything, the rookie detective and rookie patrolman for not knowing procedure and leaving her vulnerable, Salieri taking everything from him, Sara for making him care, for pushing him and for causing him to fall so deeply in love with her, Sara for dying, but mostly, he just blamed himself. He'd counted every mistake he'd made over the years, wondering if changing just one would have altered the course of their lives just enough for Sara to still be around and in his arms. There were so many decisions he'd thought right that may have been wrong. He had so many regrets that seemed so much more important now that Sara was gone. And he regretted that last night. He should have made love to her before she went in and made her later than she was accustomed to being, put her behind a little, or begged her to stay home with him that night, or asked her to get off early, or…or…or…changed something, as though something could have been changed, so that she would still be home with him.

He'd always known that losing her would kill him. He'd never imagined it would happen so slowly. That morning, when Nick fumbled through the notice and through many teary-eyed, heartfelt apologies, half of his soul had been ripped from him. Who he was, fundamentally, had disappeared in an instant. Half of him had been killed with her and he hadn't even known it for another couple of hours, not until Nicky had told him. Sara had been dying on the cold pavement, and he'd been planning a romantic breakfast. He hadn't realized all he'd lost inside of him, not until he'd seen Nicky, eyes downcast, standing in his doorway, Nick's posture letting him know he would never be the same. Half of him had been taken. Every day following, another piece of him died, leaving holes in him that left him with the most unbearable aches. Fourteen months later, he was still dying. Fourteen months later, most of his soul was lost to some unknown. His body had also begun to die, slowly, along with his soul, leaving only his mind, still sharp, remembering every detail so acutely and heading down a path he would not escape from. He'd lost her before, but in ways that had left him with a morsel of hope. Back then, he'd held onto that hope and had it realized. He'd been wounded, but those wounds had healed. Sara had healed them. Sara had accepted him back, welcomed him, clung to him, told him of her need for him, her arms and heart always open to him. Those wounds weren't fatal. This last wound was. He was bleeding out slowly, fourteen months of bleeding. He wasn't surviving this.

His body was quivering. The concerto in his mind played louder in his head, pounding in his brain, the score poignant and sorrowful,_ Requiem for Sara_. He held Catherine tighter until he was unable to hold his trembling arms up any longer.


	5. Chapter 5

**V**

It was the first time he'd ever failed to take in his surroundings. Person after person had come up to him and offered his or her condolences, but he was not sure who. Numb, in a trace, Grissom shook hands with them all as though he'd just met them, or wasn't really seeing them. He wasn't really seeing them. There were too many faces, too many people in various degrees of mourning, too much noise and too many whispers. The voices were a blur, blending and fading, the occasional word coming out and striking at his heart. He'd heard every whispered, "Sara."

The gathering had passed in a dream. It had seemed clouded. He hadn't been able to tell who was who, or who had come. There were a lot of uniforms. Brass, Brass was in uniform. Brass was there. Brass had come back from New Jersey. Catherine had been there as well. Of course she had been there. She had sat at his right hand and held onto it, and he had let her. Always his right hand, Catherine. Nick, Nick, he remembered hovering. Nick, he remembered hugging him, holding him in a strong grip, even when he'd been unable to return it. Greg, he knew, had read the eulogy. He hadn't heard a thing Greg had said, but he had focused enough to see Sara's old protégé shuffle up to the podium and stare out over the crowd with tears in his eyes. Catherine had told him it was the eulogy Greg had read. Somewhere he had a copy. He'd never had the strength to read it himself.

Sara's mother was there. He remembered looking at her and trying to find traces of Sara, but only saw an old woman who'd lost her grip with reality. She'd been doing well the last time he'd seen her; not so well anymore. He remembered closing his eyes and crying out at the quirk of fate, the building blocks of Sara's life surviving, not in a child, but in her broken, schizophrenic mother. Sara had fought so hard not to become a product of her past, and Grissom had been looking for her in it because he knew it was the last place he'd ever find her again. He had wanted to see her survive in it. He had wanted, no, had needed, to see her survive somewhere, but damn it, he couldn't. She hadn't survived in her mother. Half of her DNA had, but she hadn't.

He didn't remember anyone else. Employees of the lab had come up to him at various moments, he was sure, but who, he couldn't say. Hodges must have approached him. Hodges was certain to have approached him, and yet, he couldn't remember. It was something he'd tried to master for years, evading Hodges, forgetting Hodges, ignoring Hodges, not noticing Hodges's presence. Apparently trauma was the key. That discovery had come about eighteen years to late, he'd thought, and then quickly amended that idea. That discovery had come eighteen years too early. No, that discovery should never have been made. Did Hodges even come up to him? He really couldn't remember.

He did remember glancing over to see Colby Bernhardt at one point. She had given him a sad smile, but had not approached. Maybe she had. So many people had that he was unaware of. He remembered the urn. Unique and Sara, he hadn't taken his eyes off of it. He had stared at it, all through the readings and the speeches, thinking about how it housed Sara. He couldn't see her as ashes. He could still see her as he saw her last, lying on a morgue table, a gaping wound in her head. Sometimes he tried to see her as he last saw her before her death, eyes shining, her smile wide, leaving him with a quick kiss on her way out the door, but for a long time, that image had morphed into the later one.

He continued to tremble in Catherine's arms while she made soothing hushes. Her palm rubbed warmly over his back. "You've really held this close to the breast," she whispered, "haven't you?"

He said nothing in return; he just let himself be rocked by her.

"I hate to see you spending your days wallowing in self pity."

This wasn't pity. He hated himself too much to pity.

"It's been over a year, Gil. You can't go on like this. You have to move on."

Over a year. Not for him. For him it was yesterday and the day before and the day before that. He held Sara every single night, several times a night, and lost her several times each night and every single morning. He lost her over and over and over again, and the pain was just as acute every single time. Every night he had her. Every night he held her. Every night he saw her smile, heard her voice, kissed her lips and traced over every one of those details that were supposed to fade over time. He remembered everything about her. Memory was a gift. It was also a curse. The details hadn't faded. Her features hadn't faded. The sound of her voice hadn't faded. Nothing had faded and even if, eventually, as he grew even older, they did, the gaping hole he felt in her absence would not fade with them. It had been over a year, sure. It had been fourteen months, fourteen months of losing her.

Catherine's fingers began to sift through his hair. He pulled back, not wanting anyone to touch him as Sara had, even if it was only in comfort. "Any news on Salieri?"

Catherine stepped back, giving him his space. "Salieri? Christ, Gil. No… No, okay? They haven't found something to charge him with yet."

"Why the hell not? It's not his first time around."

Catherine shook her head. She spoke in a calm, even tone. "They need a solid case. They don't want to risk losing him. You know that, Gil. Go slow to go fast, right? They charge him now, he gets off."

Grissom sighed. He scrunched up his face and ran his hand over it, trying to contain his frustration and his anger.

"They'll get him, Gil. They're still looking. Nick won't let the case be pushed aside. He goes through the file every single day. Lou has been keeping tabs on Salieri's movements. Salieri is going to mess up and when he does, they'll get him."

He stood up and brushed by Catherine. "Do you actually believe that?"

"Look, we both know some guys go free, guys we really want to get, cases that stay with us, and I know every single one of those cases pales in comparison to this one, but Nick and Greg are staying with this case. They aren't letting this one go. They won't ever let this one go, Gil, not ever. You said it yourself; Salieri isn't clean. They're going to get him for something and hopefully that something is enough to get him for Sara's murder as well, but for now, you have to focus on something else."

Grissom shook his head. "I can't."

"I know. You think you can't, but you have to." She stepped in front of him. "Believe me, I know."

"You don't."

"I do. I've been through this, Grissom. Eddie's murder wasn't solved either."

Grissom scoffed. He hated scoffing at that, but he scoffed anyhow. He was only all too well aware of all of the ups and downs of Catherine's marriage, well aware of everything that had led to their divorce, and he was well aware of how Eddie's death had affected her, but Eddie and Catherine were…Eddie and Catherine, and their marriage… It wasn't fair to scoff, but it wasn't fair of her to compare her loss of a man who'd once been her husband to his loss of a woman who had forever been his heart.

Catherine sighed. She met his eyes. Her voice came out soft and even. "I know what we had was nothing like what you had with Sara. I know I can't even dream of comparing what Eddie and I had to what you shared with Sara, but Eddie was still my husband and I still loved him."

He shook his head, thinking she didn't get it, but then remembered how close she had come to losing Lindsay too that day. She could have lost a child, a part of herself. Parts of her hadn't died with Eddie, but they would have with Lindsay. He sighed. "I didn't just lose the woman I love Catherine. I lost half of myself."

Catherine wrapped her arms around him again. "Oh, Gil."

He shook against her. "It's destroying me."

"I know."

"I'm not coming back from this."

"I know that, too."

His tears saturated her sweater. She rubbed his back. "You have to do something, Gil, please."

He shook his head against her shoulder, his teary eyes rubbing along her shirt. His chest heaved with his mournful cry. "I can't just sit here and exist without her. I am not able to become numb to her memory. I'm hollow without her and I can't live like this. I don't want to live like this. I will never find peace until it destroys me."

"Gil..."

"I want to let it destroy me, Catherine, so please, let me be miserable. Leave me alone and let me get old before my time."

She pulled back and cupped his cheek. "I can't do that."

He looked up at her, his sight blurred by his tears. "Why not?"

Her hand fell. "Because it would destroy me."

Grissom stared at her. He blinked away his tears and stared at her. She stared back. Her hands lifted to his arms and squeezed gently. "Stop thinking your life doesn't affect the rest of us, Gil. It does. You're going to hate this, but you really need to hear it. You're important to me. Despite all of your social hang-ups, and despite how hard you've made it, you've managed to become one of the best friends I've ever had. I can't give you a will to live, but I will not leave you alone. I'm going to keep having dinner with you once a week, and I'm going to do whatever I can to take care of you. I'm going to be over here checking up on you every now and then so that, if you choose to pass on, you don't leave Nicky a corpse that's too disgusting. I do promise not to get after you so much and, even though, for your sake, I wish you could, I won't ask you to try to move on ever again. I'll even keep you updated on everything I hear about Salieri, but you have to let me in every now and then, okay?

He nodded. He couldn't push Catherine out of his life, no matter how much he thought he'd wanted to. Besides, he didn't really want her out of it. Deep down, the part of him which had not yet died still treasured her friendship, despite how it interfered with his plans of passing this earth as quickly as possible.

Catherine let go of his arms. "Good. I'm hungry. Somebody stood me up earlier. I'll whip us up something. Tell me you have food in the house."

Grissom shrugged. Catherine rolled her eyes. "God, Grissom."

Frowning, he stood up, feeling his joints creek. Catherine was wrong about one thing. He was old. Good. At that moment, he didn't care how humiliating it felt; it gave him a wonderful, smug feeling of satisfaction.

He followed Catherine to the kitchen and watched her rummage through his fridge. Her head peeked out. "I think I can scrounge up enough, but we're hitting the grocery store tomorrow. Oh, and if you think this counts as our weekly dinner, you're wrong. We're still going out tomorrow."

Damn it. The smug feeling was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

**VI**

She was screaming. Blindly, he tried reaching for her, hoping to silence her agonizing cries, wanting to still her. He watched her thrash before him, lost to some dark nightmare. Her screams continued to tear at his heart and he reached again, and again. He kept reaching but found only air. His heart racing, he reached again; nothing…again…nothing…reaching again…nothing, nothing but air. He kept reaching, but still nothing. Again…nothing. He flailed his hands out and they landed upon the bedding. He woke in a panic.

He was sweating. His pajamas were soaked with perspiration. So were his sheets. His breaths were coming out hard and fast. He gasped with each breath, choking down air as it tried to find its way in. He was hyperventilating, more carbon dioxide going out than oxygen coming it. His heart was beating so hard, he thought it might burst. His chest hurt. He clutched at it. His arm hurt. Is this what a heart attack felt like? The symptoms seemed right, but was this how it actually felt? Is this how it felt to actually experience one? _Burst,_ he thought, _just let it be over _and for one absurd moment, he felt akin to Fred Sanford. _Sara, I'm coming to join you. 1_

Like Fred Sanford, it wasn't a heart attack, though unlike Sanford, he hadn't been feigning anything. He had felt the chest pain and had been hoping for an end, for some peace at last. Realistically, he knew the chest pain had been caused by anxiety, just as it had in past experiences. That damn nightmare, reaching for her and not being able to grasp her, waking to find her gone. He flopped onto his back as waves of his nightmare washed over him, dreaming of Sara caught in the middle of her own terrible dream. His nightmares had nightmares. What a horrific nightmare it had been, watching her in the throes of her own nightmare, unable to reach her, to help her, to comfort her. For a few brief moments, he couldn't imagine being more scared. Until he reached for her and came up empty. Until he woke up.

His breathing slowed, gasps for air coming softer, the change slight, but it helped. His lungs didn't hurt so much. His heart still did. The frantic pounding had stopped, but the pain from emptiness of the gaping wound had returned. He sighed and a tear slipped from his eye.

He began to shiver. The chill in the room attached itself to his wet pajamas, leaving him cold beneath. Turning to his side, he curled into a ball and continued to tremble on top of the bed. He reached for the extra pillow, her pillow, and pulled it to his chest, biting down hard on the corner and breathing over it. He closed his eyes and let himself imagine it was her. _Think of something else. Think of something else._

Years before, Catherine had investigated a case where an elderly couple had died together in their sleep. The couple had died of cyanide poisoning, the cyanide being produced by a fire beneath an old layer of carpeting. It had drifted up to them in sleep and killed them, silently, peacefully, without suffering and in the arms of their love. While signing off on Catherine's case, Grissom had caught a glimpse at some of the case photos. After he had signed off, he'd gone back to staring at those photos. When the couple had died, the husband had been wrapped lovingly around his wife, his left hand over her hip. Grissom hadn't been able to stop staring at the couple, spooned together in sleep, then in death. His eyes had wandered over their left hands, both prominently displayed in the photos, and he had gazed at the sight of their wedding bands adorning their aged ring fingers. At that moment, he couldn't imagine a more peaceful way to go.

Earlier, he had thought he wanted a long, drawn out death, a chance to challenge himself in a way he hadn't before, a chance to immerse himself in a classic piece of literature once more, a chance to return to a place that had awed him with such wonder and such beauty, and a chance to say goodbye. He didn't need that anymore. Rethinking priorities before death, fulfilling those last wishes and bucket lists, it all came too late. Sara had shown him that. Being with her had reorganized his priorities. He'd taken the time to immerse himself in great literature once again, reading to Sara as they cuddled together on the sofa, she curled into him, he with his arm around her shoulders. She'd led him back to the rainforest and reintroduced him to wonder and beauty, not just the beauty and wonder of the majesty of nature, but the beauty and wonder of her. He had begun to challenge himself in ways he hadn't thought to before. He'd had all of that. He'd only missed out on one thing. He hadn't been able to say goodbye to the one person he really loved. He'd been robbed of that one, the one he actually needed. It didn't matter what time he had left anymore. She had died and he was dying, his one time wish for a prolonged death coming true, and he had found it was nothing he'd imagined, but agony instead. The pain he felt every day was agony. It held him in purgatory.

This long, drawn out death did not lead him to any truths, nor did it have him examining priorities. His greatest truth was Sara. He didn't need this prolonged agony to feel that. He didn't want go out fulfilling some meaningless bucket list. Since finding her, everything he had wanted to experience, he'd wanted to experience with her. Without Sara, there was no meaning. He wanted more time with Sara, to not have her life cut so short. If they had only had more time, time for Sara to live out the rest of her life. He would have gladly faced everything that came along with aging if it could keep him with her long enough for her life to be fulfilled. He would have gladly spent hours a day over the next several years relieving himself if, over those years, it gave him an hour a day of simply holding her. He would have held on for her. He would have died in such peace wrapped around her. He wanted that. He wanted what that couple got. He wanted to go back, to die with her tucked into his embrace, to not have to survive her, and to spare her the pain and suffering of surviving him. He knew the anguish in that, knew the anguish she would have felt, watching him die, having to experience that prolonged death he had once thought would be so ideal. He would have hated her to watch him die, to know this emptiness, to feel this…to have to feel.

The shaking of his shivering body grew more intense. Silent, aching sobs were pressed into the pillow. He rocked his upper body back and forth, grasping onto the pillow, his fingernails digging in deep. He thought of Sara dying alone on the cold, hard ground and he let out a wail. The concerto played loudly in his head. His body continued to rock and tremble until finally, the music began to fade and the trembling began to ease.

He could feel something on his temples, soothing and comforting. "Ssh," she whispered, her voice soft and comforting. He opened his eyes and blinked, and began to stare at the wonderful flakes of brown. Sara gave him a small smile. "Hey." Her hand cupped his cheek and he reached up, grasping her wrist and placing a kiss on her palm.

"Hi."

"Are you doing alright?"

"Yeah."

He watched as she stepped back and linked her arm with his. His eyes followed hers around the crowd of people. She leaned into his side. "It was a lovely service."

He felt himself nod.

"Do they always do a full mass for a funeral?"

Grissom's eyes moved from the gathering of mourners back to Sara. "Yeah, for both weddings and funerals."

Sara nodded. She turned and faced him again. Her arms wrapped around his back. Her head rested on his shoulder. "I really admire your mother. She certainly did it right."

"Hmm?" His arms wrapped around her. He craned his neck to look down at Sara. "What's that?"

"Growing old, aging as though she wasn't aging, remaining so active and independent, so dignified and so sharp, right up to the end."

He nodded. His fingers ran lightly over her back. "Is that how you want to do it?"

Sara lifted her head and shook it before allowing it to fall back onto his shoulder. "No. She had to do it all alone. I want to do it with you."

Grissom couldn't help the soft smile that appeared on his lips. His fingers stopped skimming over Sara's back, but landed flat and pressed her to him. He held her for a few minutes, but released her when he saw people approaching them. Sara by his side, he let his hand drift in circles over the small of her back as he listened and watched his mother's friends and colleagues offer their condolences. His hand only left her back to respond with thanks to the various people who'd approached him.

When the last of the group left, Sara tucked herself into his side and he could not help the soft smile that grew from his lips. His hand continued to graze over her back. He gazed at her for moments, and then turned to look back over the gathering. He caught the eye of one attendee and smiled, watching her as she approached.

A pleasant smile on his face, his hands moved in sign as he greeted Julia Holden and thanked her for coming, watching her nod softly. "Julia," he spoke and signed, "this is my wife, Sara." He paused and let his eyes glance between the two. "Oh, I'm sorry, I believe you two have already met."

They both nodded and politely greeted one another. Grissom's hand found Sara's back again, circling lazily as he watched the two converse. He was amazed by the warmth Julia showed towards Sara. For a couple of women who'd only met a few times before, it startled him, especially given the circumstances under which they first met. The warmth, however, was genuine and it left him in awe of his wife. He had learned early, never to underestimate her, but for her to have won Julia over…

He felt Sara give him a nudge and then realized he had drifted off while Julia was waiting to address him. He watched her hands and smiled as Julia spoke of his mother. When they had exchanged warm words, she wished him well and told him how happy she was to know he had married and had married so well. She let him know he was very fortunate to have found someone so compassionate and he found himself drawing Sara further into his side in agreement. He bid a fond farewell to his old friend and former sweetheart, thinking back to the pleasant days they had spent experimenting with being a couple and finding, that while they cared a great deal for each other as friends, they would never achieve the level of intimacy of his mother's hopes. Even then, he'd been waiting for Sara.

Turning her to face him again, he grasped both her hands in his. He stared into her eyes. "Sara, I want you to know…" He stopped. Sara stared up at him. "What?" she whispered, her voice catching a little, betraying her nervousness.

Taking a deep breath, he spoke softly. "I treasure you."

Sara cocked an eyebrow. Then, she smiled, wide and beautiful, her eyes dancing. He tugged on her hands and wrapped her arms back around him. His arms moved over hers, pulling her in tight. Sara's chin rested on his shoulder.

Wrapped around her, he glanced around and he knew Sara was doing the same.

"Feels kind of odd."

"What, dear?"

"Everybody milling around, not following her body to her burial site."

He nodded. "For the past several years, her home was here, but her place is beside my father. There will be another short grave site ceremony in Marina Del Ray tomorrow for all of her old friends back there."

He could feel Sara's arms tighten around him. "How long until we have to leave for the airport?"

"A few hours."

"Do you want to stick around here?"

He shook his head. "No, let's go home."

He could feel Sara smile against him. She stepped back, and reluctantly, he let her go. Her hand reached out to his and he wound his fingers around hers in a firm grip, lifting his hand to place a kiss on the back of hers.

Home.

"Planning on moving?"

Sara's voice carried into the kitchen, where he was making breakfast. He peeked around the corner to see Sara sitting on the sofa, flipping through a folder from the real estate agent, the folder he'd left on the coffee table, in plain sight, for her to find. He'd wanted to ask her about it, but didn't know how to go about doing it. He'd hoped finding the folder would allow Sara to broach the subject. Now he wondered if it was too soon, or if he was trying to make too many decisions at once. He'd just got the letter from William's College and still had to tell her about it. Stepping out into the living room, he shrugged. "Maybe."

Sara dropped the folder back on the coffee table and looked up at him. "What?" Her voice carried a tone of disbelief. "You'd sell the townhouse?"

He shrugged again. "I've been thinking about it. The market's right. It won't be for very long."

"You'd really sell this place?"

He let out another small shrug. She nodded and absently began leafing through the folder. He moved towards the sofa, nervous, his palms sweaty. He took a deep breath. It was time. A part of him knew he would likely be accepting the offer from William's College. Another part of him knew he needed something concrete to return to, or his month long absence from Sara would create doubts in both of them. He was finally just beginning to understand what he wanted with regards to her. He took another long breath. "Maybe, I mean, if I could find a suitable roommate."

Sara's eyes shot up to his. Her eyes wide, she stared at him. "Roommate?"

He nodded.

"You would actually be willing to share your space?" The skepticism in her voice bothered him, but he forced himself to look beyond it. He stepped around the coffee table until he stood before her, looking down into her eyes. "With the right person, yeah."

"Oh."

Sitting down on the edge of the table, he pressed his fingers together and watched as the tips turned red. "If that was something you would want. I mean, I thought we could just look around and see what is out there."

She smiled up at him. Her eyes were dancing. "A place of our own, together?"

He nodded.

She smiled even wider. "Yeah." She leaned forward and pressed her smiling lips softly to his. Cupping her cheeks in his hands, he deepened the kiss, breaking apart only to feel her smile against his lips once more. "You know," she whispered, "I think I'd really like coming home to you."

Home.

He stood next to the steps leading down into what would be the kitchen, scanning over the area.

"It won't be ready for occupation until the beginning of March."

Grissom nodded at the real estate agent and looked over at Sara. "What do you think?"

She was smiling. "New development, our own condo, a chance to put in the fixtures that we want, room enough for a big dog."

He nodded and turned to the real estate agent. "Can you give us a moment?"

"Sure."

The young woman left and he turned back to Sara. "So..."

"This place is great. Best place so far. I like it."

"Do you?"

"Yes." She cocked her head to the side. "Don't you?"

"I think the place is near perfect. We have office space, lots of room, the layout is nice, but..."

"But?"

"Do you just like it, or...?"

Sara laughed. "I love it. I love the idea of it. I love that it is new and we can start from scratch and do with it what we want, and I love that I can share it with you."

"It won't be ready until March."

"My lease isn't up until the beginning of May anyways, so even if the townhouse sells right away, we'll still have a place to squat. Your stuff will have to go into storage, though. There definitely isn't room at my apartment."

"So, this is it?"

Sara smiled and grasped his hand. "Yeah, I think this is it, our new home."

_Home. _He turned the word over in his head and glanced over at Sara. She leaned into his side. _Yeah, _he thought, _home._

* * *

**A/N: **1: _Sara, I'm coming to join you _is a knock off from the oft repeated gag, "Elizabeth, I'm coming to join you," from the television show, _Sanford and Son._


	7. Chapter 7

**VII**

His fingers pulled at the folds on his face, stretching it out. He let go abruptly and watched as the surface of his clammy skin stuck, momentarily, to the tips of his fingers before falling back into place, wrinkles again showing. His face was gaunt and sallow beneath the line of perspiration. He looked haggard. When did he get this old? Though he'd been slowly aging before Sara left, he hadn't looked that old. Sara had never thought so.

He could still picture her behind him, her hands running up over his shoulders and moving across his chest. He could picture her lovely face, though slightly older in appearance, as beautiful at forty-nine as it was at thirty-nine when her face still held the appearance of youth. He pictured her leaning into his ear and whispering how she still thought he was the most handsome man she'd ever met, how she still desired him as fervently as she did when they first met. If she were still there, he'd grasp her wrist, draw her around his body and pull her into his lap as though he was still young enough to do so. He'd tilt his head up and kiss her, and delight in the feel of her moving over him, straddling him, cupping his face and kissing him from above.

He loved her kisses when they were filled with hunger. He loved how her mouth devoured his. He loved how she moved above him and squirmed as she kissed him, her hands moving from his cheeks to his shoulders, to his chest, her palms pressing in, and then up underneath his shirt, along the warm skin of his back. He loved how her ankles hooked into his thighs to keep herself steady. He loved grasping her waist and moving his hands up along her sides as she kept kissing him. He loved brushing his hands back down and under her shirt as he removed it. He loved how she wrapped herself around him, her arms around his shoulders, her legs around his torso. He loved the scent and feel of their sweat mingling. He loved the look in her eyes when the intensity in them matched the intensity in his, when there was no doubt she wanted him. At sixty-four, she still made him feel so attractive. At sixty-five, even she could never have found him so.

He stared back at his reflection and sighed. His hands came up and rubbed over his eyes. He let his hands drop. The same drawn image met his eyes. He slumped and wondered when Catherine was going to show up to take him for groceries. Knowing her, she would not give him any advance warning, but merely show up and expect him to be ready. How much time did he have? Could he get some work done? It wasn't likely. Did he have time for another nap? Possibly, but he had just awoken and did he really want to lie in bed without Sara, thinking of all the times he'd lain under the covers blanketed also by her? Was there really anything better to do than stare in the mirror and catalogue the changes in his body? He could count the lines on his face like they were rings on a tree. See how many wrinkles he now had? Add some more; they just kept appearing. Why not double them? It wouldn't make any difference. No matter how many appeared, they all mocked him. Hideous lines of grief, they marked every day that had passed since he'd lost her.

Pushing himself up slowly, he staggered over to the bathroom, his hand on his hip, squeezing over the skin to relieve some of the pain in his aching joints. His knees barely supported him. How long until he would need a cane?

When he was finished in the washroom, he ambled back over to the bed, reminding himself not to drink anything that morning. The last thing he wanted was the humiliation of having to search for a restroom every few minutes while he was supposed to be out buying groceries. It would annoy Catherine, his constant excusing of himself. Furthermore, he didn't want to spend any more time out shopping than the bare minimal time needed for such a venture. Knowing Catherine, she'd try to drag it out anyway.

He glanced back toward the mirror and quickly looked away. The reflection was ugly. His hand lifted to his jaw and he rubbed over it, feeling his palm pull at his clammy skin. His pajamas, still damp, had attached themselves to his arms, back and chest. He pulled at the cotton, watching it lift and fall back into place, stuck again to his skin. It was hot that morning, and he was still sweaty and sticky from his earlier nightmare. He sighed and rose, heading for the shower.

The cool spray of water showered over him, washing away the sweat. Eyes closed, he rested his forehead on the forearm propped against the shower wall. He imagined Sara's arm around his torso, creeping up his chest and scratching over his chest hairs. He could feel her other hand in his hair, playing with the wet strands, her fingertips massaging his scalp.

He let out a moan and grasped himself, thinking of the feel of her bare breasts pressed against his back as she let her palm slide to his stomach and she pulled herself firmly into his back. He could feel her hand creeping over his and…

And there was a knock, and Catherine calling his name and he was standing alone in the shower, under the cool spray, holding himself in one hand, wrinkled and old and alone. Fuck.

He lifted his head and pushed himself up so that it was his legs supporting his body, and not the shower wall. His hands reached for the tap and he turned off the water. Grabbing a towel as he stepped from the shower, he swiped the cloth over his body and wrapped it around himself, stepping back into his bedroom.

Catherine called his name again.

"One minute," he replied, his voice raspy. Discarding the towel, he pulled on a fresh pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt and moved into the kitchen.

Catherine eyed him and shook her head. "Are you ready to go shopping?"

He shrugged and ignored the roll of Catherine's eyes.

"I'll take that as a yes."

He followed her to the door, grabbing his wallet as he went. Slipping on a pair of sandals, he followed Catherine to her car and climbed into the passenger seat.

Catherine slipped into the driver's side and put her key in the ignition. Her hand crossed over her body to pull at her seatbelt. After she fastened it, she turned to him. "Have you had any breakfast?"

Grissom frowned. "Catherine, what business is it of yours?"

"Sorry, what was that? I know what you meant to say is 'no, Catherine, I haven't, but breakfast sounds really good. Thank you'."

He rolled his eyes and turned to look out the window, planning to ignore anything further Catherine might be tempted to say. He didn't care if he looked like a petulant child at the moment.

Catherine, to her credit, didn't say anything further. She pulled into a diner that was not their diner and turned off the ignition. He could feel her eyes on him and slowly, he turned to meet them. She had a soft look in her eyes. "Unless, you'd rather go to Franks…"

"No." He shook his head quickly. "No, this is fine."

"Good."

She waited and he took a breath, opening up the passenger door. He stepped out and felt the heat of the approaching day sweep through him. Damn Vegas summers and their dry heat.

Catherine stepped out and moved around her car, coming up beside him. He heard the beep of the car locking and watched as Catherine pocketed her keys. She gave him a quick smile and led him inside. He followed her around the diner, noting the ugly yellow paint job on the walls, stained over time. Sitting in a booth with awful green upholstered seats, he looked down at the orange and green checkered pattern on the table. Clearly, the diner had not been refurnished or renovated since the seventies. The air around their booth lingered and he noticed how stale the stench was once they were past the counter and away from the lingering scent of grease.

Ever observant, even in those later years, his eyes roamed over the diner. There was a young waitress, a brunette, serving a couple of middle aged men in a far booth. The waitress was slim, with long, delicate fingers that jotted down the orders quickly. Her hair was tied back into a straight, neat ponytail. She turned slightly, giving him the chance to observe her face. Her eyes had warring flecks of brown and green, the green becoming more prominent as she blushed. She looked almost shy, but had a sweet, endearing smile.

Nearer to him, there was another waitress, this one quite older, likely in her late forties. A larger woman, she looked as though she'd seen a lot of life, taken a lot of crap and was able to dish it right back out. She was also a brunette, her hair slightly darker, thicker, and more frizzy, but also tied back in a ponytail. The waitress was holding her pen in one hand, and Grissom could see the yellowing between the tips of her fingers, and he briefly wondered at the number of years she'd been smoking. He could imagine speaking to her and having a very amusing conversation, but something in the younger waitress's smile and blush made him hope for her as a waitress over the larger, more seasoned waitress.

His eyes looked over the menu, but could not focus. Instead, they wandered over the ugly diner and the patrons in it. He watched various sets of lips move, but his mind was not on what they were saying. For awhile, he just watched the movement, compared the lips of the waitresses, the older woman's lips dry and cracked, forming words in a quick, abrupt manner, the young girl's softer and smoother, forming words beautifully. Shifting in his seat, his eyes moved back to the menu, glancing up to see another young waitress, this one blonde, beautiful and sure of herself, relieve the young brunette. He sighed and let his eyes fall back to the menu, trying to focus on how the words strung together and what that meant for his breakfast options.

A cough alerted him to the approach of a waitress and his head snapped up. He looked up to see the blonde waitress waiting for him. "Sorry?"

"Can I get you anything to drink?"

Drink? A coffee would be nice, but then he thought of liquid accumulating in his bladder and numerous trips to the washroom while trying to shop for groceries he didn't care about. Hell, he'd probably have to make a couple trips in the diner already, forget having any coffee to help it out. Those few trips would be humiliating enough. "Drink? No, thank you."

"Grissom…"

"Catherine, I'm not so old as to not be able to order for myself anymore. I'm not thirsty."

Catherine turned to the waitress and shrugged apologetically. "He's not thirsty."

The waitress smiled, slightly indulgingly, and Grissom frowned again. She looked at Catherine. "I can bring out some water."

"I'm not thirsty," he cut in sharply, frowning again at the waitress. Is that what age discrimination felt like? He could order for himself. He wasn't senile. Admittedly, he wasn't even that old, though he knew he looked it. He'd aged, sure. Catherine hadn't. She still looked young, young enough to be taken seriously. He wondered what the young waitress thought of the two of them together. Likely, given that this was Vegas, she thought Catherine was some sort of trophy wife, but given the way he'd aged, even Catherine being mistaken for his daughter wasn't unfeasible.

The rest of the breakfast passed much the same. The waitress humored him as she likely would any elderly patron who didn't know his own mind any longer. Though he was no where near that far gone, she had obviously figured he was. The brunette probably would have been more understanding.

He watched Catherine sip on her coffee, watching her lips as she lifted her mug. Pushing his food around his plate, his eyes wandered back over the diner, watching and looking, waiting for another figure to show up. He pictured the chair that would be pulled to the end of the booth, delicate fingers that would pick at the food on various plates, the smirk on the most baiting set of lips he'd ever encountered, one legs pulled up to the seat, knee in the air. He looked around again.

Sighing, he let his shoulders drop and began to watch more sets of lips, concentrating this time on the words each set formed. He remembered the last time he'd read lips, when he had a slight infection in his ears causing his hearing to be muffled and he'd feared his hearing was deteriorating. He remembered Sara's soft lips, lightly kissing over each ear, whispering words to see if he could hear them, telling him she loved him, would always love him, and then kissing the same ears and whispering the same words when it turned out he'd only had a slight infection, caught from plunging into the tropical waters of a small pond during a trip to Papua New Guinea. Those soft words had been so solemn and sincere. The words floating around the diner were lighter, as anecdotes and baseball scores dominated conversations. Lips moved happily, signaling the good mood of most of the population despite the stifling heat the morning promised for later in the day. Perhaps later, when they felt the heat that had soaked into him, their moods would match his.

Mercifully, Catherine had allowed his silence for most of their breakfast. She spoke little, or at least did not demand his attention on her words. She did not offer that same silent reprieve on the ride over to the grocery store, but then again, he'd never known Catherine to be able to hold her tongue. Staring out the window, he half listened to her lecture. About half way there, Catherine changed tactics and tried for small talk. She wasn't any more successful. Letting her words float through him, he watched the buildings pass by.

"You really need to spend more time out of the condo, Gil."

He nodded absently. Realistically, he knew he should, but he still wasn't going to.

"Why don't we catch a movie afterwards?"

He glanced at her briefly, watching as she turned a corner. He frowned as a new set of buildings passed, taking him away from any grocery stores he could think of. He wondered at Catherine's navigation until he realized she was rerouting them to pass by The Wonderland Art House Theater and recognized that she was trying to entice him into staying out. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad idea. Absently, he glanced up at the title film. _Amadeus_. Fuck.

Catherine must have noticed how the title caught his attention. He felt her eyes on him. "We could go see that, if you want."

His eyes shot to hers. "No!"

Catherine looked a bit startled. "Not a fan of that one?"

"No. No movie, Catherine."

She shook her head sadly and quieted, returning to a route that would lead them to a grocery. She was still quiet when she pulled into the grocery's lot. Once she parked, he stepped out quickly and the heat hit him again. He fell back against the car and took a moment to collect himself. It was going to be a hot day. He strolled quickly into the grocery store, welcoming the cool of the building.

Once they were inside the store, Catherine was back to talking. He found himself trying to ignore most of what she said as he followed her from aisle to aisle. She lectured him on his eating habits, and threw fruit into his cart without asking. He continued to walk just behind her, reaching into the cart every so often to take out the items he didn't want. Every so often, they battled and Catherine won only because he didn't have the strength or the will to keep up his end of the argument these days.

"Bananas, Grissom? You're taking out bananas?"

"I don't want any."

"They're good for you."

"Whose groceries are these, Catherine?"

"Yours."

"That's right."

"You like bananas."

Grissom thought of Sara in Costa Rica, laughing as a local boy ran up to her, tugging on her shirt, calling her lady and offering her banana from a market stand, his large, brown eyes willing her to taste it. He recalled how she peeled back the outer layer and bit into the freshly picked fruit, smiling and nudging him into buying a bundle from the boy. He remembered how she teased him with her own offering, holding out the banana to bite into and then withdrawing it until he paid the young boy. He smiled as he thought of her then giving him a taste of the fruit from her own lips. Pura Vida. "Fine," he said and dropped the bundle of bananas back into the cart.

Catherine's smirk following caused him to frown and the rest of the shopping experience passed much the same. At first he refused foods that Sara had favored, and then, clung to them. Knowing him as she did, Catherine filled his cart up with food he wouldn't have to prepare, all the while loudly reminiscing about how he used to love to cook. Used to was the operative phrase. Once upon a time he loved to experiment with food, blending ingredients, produce, proteins, grains and spices, to come up with a delectable treat. He could care less about cooking any more. The last meal he'd really prepared had been the one Sara hadn't come home to.

It was approaching midday when they stepped outside of the grocery store. Not a cloud in the sky, the sun beamed down on them. It was a scorcher. Grissom began to sweat. His steps stopped and he watched Catherine push the grocery cart towards her car. He wiped at his brow and took a step forward. His steps felt wobbly. His breaths increased. Catherine's form began to blur before him. Then, he saw a ring of light around a large, black spot and the ground was rushing up at him. He hit the pavement hard and tried to focus, but all he could see was that bright ring of light around the black.

"Grissom? Gil?"

Catherine's voice sounded distant. He tried to stand up and to focus on it, but he felt too dizzy. He was hot and tired and he couldn't sit, let alone stand. Catherine was still calling his name, her voice still far away, but carrying the distinct tone of worry. He lifted his head and let it drop back down. He could feel Catherine's hands on him, on his arms, his head. "Gil, come on."

He tried to respond, but couldn't. Instead, he focused on the black dots and let himself drift off.


	8. Chapter 8

**VIII**

Perspiration from the line of sweat on his brow gathered at his temple. A single drop found a path to navigate, past the corner of his eye, over his cheekbone and further. The heat had sunk into him. He'd remembered the tropics as being humid, but after years in the dry heat of Las Vegas, he'd forgotten how humidity really affected him. He could feel sweat collecting in the crook of his elbow. His head felt light. He wondered if it was just the heat causing the dizziness, or more having to do with the proximity of her.

Covered in sticky perspiration, he shifted closer, his left hand reaching out to her right. His hands were clammy, but she didn't seem to mind as she let her hand be supported by his. His fingers pressed into her back, guiding her closer. Sara's slender arm fell over his shoulder. He faced her, but did not move. She laughed.

"What?" he asked, his voice soft.

"I didn't know you danced."

"On rare occasion, I have been dragged out onto the dance floor."

She quirked a brow. "Dragged?"

"You don't honestly believe I volunteered, do you? Surely you jest," he teased.

Sara grinned, her smile wide and toothy, her eyes shining. Puckering her mouth, she returned her own tease, "Who pulled who up here?"

He shook his head and smiled. "Regardless, in all the other occasions, I was dragged. Thankfully, few of my dance partners have ever felt the need to pull me out a second time, save for Catherine."

"And why is that?"

"Too many squashed toes, I suppose."

Sara laughed again. "Really?"

He shrugged and watched her laugh again. Pulling her closer, he whispered, "And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Have many young men had the pleasure of stepping on your toes?"

Sara threw her head back and chuckled. "Very few, mostly in college, and we didn't really move our feet a whole lot. The rest of our bodies, yeah, but our feet..."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

Sara shrugged. "_Dirty Dancing_ was still huge at the time."  
_  
_"_Dirty Dancing_?"

"You know, the movie, Patrick Swayze?" She stopped and looked at him and then, blushed. "Never mind."

Taking in her blush, he pulled her slightly closer. A devilish smile on his lips, he let his body slide along hers and whispered, "If I were to take in account the title of this movie, I would hazard a guess that most of the dancing was more of the bump and grind variety?"

Sara features grew flusher. She laughed. "You'd be correct."

"And of the slow dancing variety?"

Sara shook her head. "Believe it or not, this will be my first time."

He couldn't believe it. Who wouldn't want to pull Sara close and hold her to him? Though he could not deny the very real temptation of rubbing up against Sara on the dance floor, he could not understand how any young man could choose to do only that and who could not see the merit in the intimacy and purity of a slow dance with her, in soft touches, meaningful looks, and hands that grazed slowly and lingered lightly in places. He cocked his head to the side. "Is that so?"

She shrugged, looking down. Her eyes turned back up at him and instead of the sadness he expected to see, her eyes were alight with mischief. "And what about you?"

"All of my dances have been slow," he replied honestly.

He watched Sara's left eyebrow lift. Leaning in, he whispered, "But none have been intimate."

He pulled back and watched the smile spread across Sara's face. "There is, my dear, a first time for everything." He paused and looked her over, taking in her beauty, her shining hair and sparkling eyes, and her waiting stance. "So, are we going to do this?"

"Are you going to step on my toes?"

"I'll try not to," he responded in earnest, though his tone was teasing. "We'll take it slow and should my foot accidentally land on top of yours, feel free to stomp on mine in return. We can see if you can condition it out of me."

Sara laughed. He leaned in again. "So?"

She shrugged, grinning, and he wondered if any conversation of this length had ever existed prior to a dance. They had been in dance position for awhile now, but had yet to move their feet. Though the setting was intimate, it felt almost experimental. His fingertips brushed over her spine and he began to move slowly, side to side.

"There's no music," she whispered and he began to hum, "Strangers on the Shore." He swayed with her in his arms, pressing her to him, delighting in the feel of her sweaty cheek resting on his.

Her fingers played in his curls. "Why have we never done this before?" she asked softly.

He shrugged still humming. Why hadn't they? It was such a wonderful feeling to hold Sara in his arms and sway with her. He paused in his humming. "I don't know," he whispered and then picked up the tune where he left off.

"Why now?"

He smiled, running his fingers over her back. The hum died from his lips again and he whispered, "I hear, in some cultures, it is customary for a man and wife to share a dance after their nuptials."

Sara laughed and wound her arm tighter around his shoulder. Her fingers came up and grazed over his neck and he delighted in the very new sensation of feeling the band on her forth finger roll along his skin. His left hand clasped hers and pulled it in between their bodies. Her head rested upon his shoulder and she joined him in humming. His palm slid up between her shoulder blades and pressed her more firmly to him before he let his fingertips drift again. Over and over, the same notes fell from his lips as he held on to her and rocked her back and forth. "Gil," she whispered and he pulled her closer.

"Gil!"

"Grissom!"

"Sir?"

He opened his eyes and looked around him. Catherine was at his side. The doctor stood before him. An IV line was pumping fluids into him. He turned his head to the doctor and watched as the man moved around to his side. "Mr. Grissom, have you heard anything I've said?"

"Hmm?"

"I said you are suffering from dehydration."

Dehydration. He turned the word over in his head. Sara had nearly died of dehydration.

"When was the last time you had anything to drink?"

"Yesterday morning," he responded quickly.

"Mr. Grissom, in this heat it is imperative for everybody to drink plenty of fluids. Given your age, it is especially imperative for you to do so."

"Gil," Catherine cut in, "what were you thinking? Your father likely died of heat stroke."

"Thank you for reminding me, Catherine."

The doctor looked between the two and pulled up a stool next to the bed. Grissom watched as the doctor took a seat. "Mr. Grissom, the fact that you've chosen to ignore the need for fluids on such a hot day troubles me. Even more troubling is the weight you've lost and the decline in your health since the last time you've been checked out. I've read through your file and frankly, I'm at a loss for such a decline without any obvious reason. Have you," he paused and bit his lip slightly, "felt depressed lately?"

Grissom stiffened. He opened his mouth. "Yes," Catherine responded quickly, before he could even get any words out. He shot her an irritated glance. "Catherine, what right could you possibly think you have, in responding to any questions pertaining to me or to my health? You are not my wife."

Catherine looked slightly taken aback. She turned away. The doctor glanced quickly at Catherine, and then back at Grissom. "Mr. Grissom, would you like us to call your wife?"

Grissom's heart stopped. The doctor wanted to call Sara. Call Sara. He opened his mouth, but was struck mute. His head hurt. His heart hurt. His breaths became shorter. His eyes, panicky, looked to Catherine for her help, but she still had her back to him and was likely hesitant to speak for him again. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"We are going to be admitting you overnight," the doctor continued. "Given that, someone is going to have to call her…"

He kept his eyes shut. He could feel the doctor's eyes on him. It was agony, to sit and listen to a man speak of calling Sara, as though the man could suddenly conjure her up with a phone call, could bring her back to him. He wished he could speak. Never before had he ever been so struck by the absence of the ability to form words. Sara had often left him only able to mutter a few inadequate words, but this time he couldn't even form sound. _Bring her back, _he thought, his mind pleading.

"His wife died," Catherine whispered, "fourteen months ago."

A sob rose in his chest. He felt his body tremble and shudder and he could not do anything to stop it. His breaths were ragged. _His wife died. She died. She died. She died. _

The room was so quiet. Slowly, Grissom let his breaths relax and his eyes open. Catherine was staring at him in such sadness. Breaking away from her stare, his eyes moved to the doctor. The doctor looked confused. "Oh," the doctor stopped and looked down at him and then, continued gently, "In your file, your wife is still listed as your emergency contact."

"Doctor Coetsee," Catherine cut in, "can you give us a moment alone?"

The doctor nodded and left them behind the curtain.

"Gil, you haven't updated your next of kin?"

He shrugged. He hadn't had the strength. How could he replace Sara's name with someone else's?

"Oh, Gil."

"Don't Catherine. I just want to go home."

"You can't. Not yet. You fainted today and it took awhile for you to come back around."

"I blacked out and it was only for a moment. The heat isn't very nice to us elderly folks."

"That isn't funny, Grissom. You scared me."

"I'm fine now. I just need to get home and get some..." he could feel his voice trailing off… Get some what? Rest? He needed to do what? Sit in his bed and conjure more dreams of her?

"You're staying here." Catherine stopped and paced. "Sometimes I wonder what you wouldn't give to have her back or be with her again."

_Everything_, he thought, _I'd give up everything to have her back, to be able to gaze at her and hold her_, but then even he had to amend that thought. Orpheus traveled to the underworld to bring Eurydice back, but lost her for eternity for just one glance. In Berlioz's _Faust_, Faust gave his soul to save Marguerite, and again, lost her for eternity. Something in his Catholic upbringing had him stopping short of doing just anything that would rip her from him for an eternity. He wanted eternity, would not sacrifice eternity to quell the painful, incredible, infinite yearning he was barely enduring.

The concerto began in his thoughts. Incantations filled his head. He let his eyes close. A river of longing flowed through him. Visions of Sara appeared, her hands moving up along his sides, her mouth moving over him, her bottom lip dragging across his chest, her leg falling over his, her breaths on his skin, her heartbeat beneath his fingertips, her lithe body above his, a vision. He lost himself in his mind's erotic wanderings, no longer conscious of his surroundings or of Catherine standing next to his hospital bed as he became aroused.

Dreams passed and more came, and the stream of longing branched out into every piece of him. With each passing dream, he wandered further lost, unable to navigate the rapid tributaries, until he became aware of someone speaking his name in annoyance.

"Gil, are you listening?"

He placed the textbook down and turned to look at Sara. "Of course, I'm listening. You don't think you can get away from the lab this Christmas."

"It was different when I was just helping out temporarily, but this isn't so temporary anymore. I don't know if Nick will let me take off on him again."

Grissom reached up and tugged on her arm, pulling her down to him. "I'm not spending Christmas without you."

Sara turned away from him. "You're damned right you're not."

"I'm not," he whispered gently.

She stayed facing away from him, her body stiff. "So, stay."

"Done. Come with me."

She turned back to him, her eyes wide. "You just said you'd stay."

"And I will, but wouldn't you much rather spend Christmas in Antigua?"

"Studying the Caribbean Grass Mantis?"

"Or the Hawksbill turtle," he returned, knowing it would catch her interest. Looking over at her, he grasped both of her hands with his. "Sara, I know how committed you are to the lab. I lived that life for years and I will stay here, if you want me to, without question, but I'd really like you to come with me on one of my trips, and I think, Christmas away from a job that does so little to remind you of the beauty in the world, wouldn't be such a bad thing."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'll ask Nick."

He smiled. "Remind him of the fact that you worked last Christmas."

Sara nodded and he wrapped his arms around her, kissing her temple. "Thank you."

"Nick still has to say yes."

"If he doesn't, we stay, but Sara, you have to know he will."

She nodded again and he could tell she looked a little guilty at asking to leave them shorthanded, knowing Nick would let her. Grissom wrapped his arms tighter. "It will be beautiful, Sara."

"It always is," she whispered.


	9. Chapter 9

**IX**

The engine hummed in the small drive. Catherine had parked the vehicle, but had not shut it off. She was silent beside him. Outside, he could hear the buzz of traffic and of life, but inside the car, only quiet.

Catherine had been silent most of the ride. He'd been waiting for some words, had braced himself for more lectures and guilt trips, or even some sort of prattle about Lindsay or Vartann, or something to cut into the silence. Instead, she had remained quiet and he had stared out the window at the passing streets, his head pressed against the glass of the window, also silent. Now that they were parked, he chanced a glance at her. He could see the tension in her frame, the stiffness of her limbs, the white of her knuckles, the lines on her face that spoke of concern and disappointment, resignation, worry and care. He watched her chest rise with one deep breath. Her eyes closed and he knew she wanted to say something.

That she held back worried him. Catherine did not hold back, so what in her thoughts had her keeping quiet and not speaking her mind? Had he done this to her? What was so hard to say? Or was it that she was so tired of saying the same thing over and over, of circling the same conversation, of thinking her words were not getting through when she was one of the only things keeping him upright? He took a deep breath. "Catherine," he began.

Catherine looked over at him, her eyes unreadable. His eyes moved to her hands and he watched as the knuckles returned to their normal color. Her fingertips, long and slender with nails painted a lilac purple, drummed lightly on the wheel. He glanced back up to her face, to her pursed lips, waiting for him to speak. After another deep breath, he did. "I want you to be my emergency contact and have my power of attorney."

She nodded softly. "Gil, I didn't mean..."

"I know." He looked forward, through the windshield. His hands ran along his thighs and clutched just above his knees. "There are some things we'll have to go over."

Her right hand left the steering wheel and covered his left. She squeezed lightly. "We don't have to do this now."

Grissom shook his head and pulled his hand from hers. "I would rather we did," he whispered, knowing he had to do this while he had the strength. "I don't want any life saving measures taken. I'm going to sign a DNR."

"Gil..."

"And when I die, I would like to be cremated. I want my ashes mixed with Sara's and I want you to scatter them in the Pacific Ocean, half in the San Francisco Bay, where Sara and I met, and the other half in Costa Rica, in Drake Bay, where we were married."

"Gil..."

"I will see to it that both trips are paid for, flights, hotels, spending money... You can make a vacation of it with Lindsay or Vartann, if you choose..."

"Gil, you know I wouldn't be worried about any of that."

"Never-the-less, everything would be covered."

He chanced another glance in time to see Catherine nod. There were tears in her eyes. Her hand covered his again and this time, he did not move to remove it. "Will you," he began, his voice raspy and catching in his throat, 'do that for me?"

Catherine nodded again. "Of course I will." Her thumb brushed over his hand. He felt himself flinch as her digit caught on his wedding band. She gave a gentle squeeze. He closed his eyes. "We can go over everything in more detail later."

"Do you want me to come in with you?"

Grissom shook his head. "No. I'm just going to go to sleep."

"Okay."

Catherine's hand left his and he released the seatbelt. His other hand pulled on the door handle and opened the door, and he stepped out of the car. Closing the door, he ambled across his hot drive to his door. Fumbling with his set of keys, he turned open his condo door and slipped inside where his bed was waiting.

For awhile he stood in the doorway to his bedroom and stared at the empty, unmade bed. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into it, fall into a deep sleep and never wake up, but he had to go to the bathroom and he was hot and sticky and in need of a shower. Sighing, he moved past the bed and into the bathroom.

His hands peeled the clothing from his skin very slowly. His eyes watched his movements through the bathroom mirror. His limbs felt heavy as he tried to lift them in the removal of each piece of cloth. Cotton stuck to his back in places and as he pulled on the hem of his t-shirt, he felt the sting of material breaking away from where it was attached to skin. His body turned and he looked out of the side of his eyes, into the mirror to see what he could of his backside. Ugly blisters from too much time spent lying on his back littered his skin. Most of the blisters were whole, still filled with fluid, forming little white hills above the surface of his skin. In places, the blisters had popped and he could just barely make out fuzz from his cotton shirt in those open wounds. The result was hideous, the picture of the ugly back of an ugly, aging man.

Turning his body away so that he would not have to stare at the repulsive sight any longer, he faced the mirror again, staring forward. He could almost see Sara in the mirror behind him, her hands on his shoulders. He closed his eyes and felt light tingling on each of his shoulders as he pictured her lips kissing the backs of each one. Her hands felt cool in the heat, but her chest, now pressed to him, felt warm.

In a daze, he finished stripping, climbing into the shower and letting cool water flow over him. His eyes closing again, he could feel Sara's hands moving gently over his back, washing each wound carefully. She handed him the luffa and with a smirk, whispered that it was his job to do hers.

Tears rolling down his eyes, he abruptly turned off the shower and stepped out.

He stopped only to relieve himself before he slipped beneath the cool sheets and stared at the wall.

Hands tucked beneath his head, he gazed at a chip in the paint, a small, uneven marking of white on a wall of fawn. He reached out and held up his thumb before him, watching the marking disappear from his sight. His thumb flicked upward and the mark was visible again. His arm dropped to the bed, hand landing flat on the empty space of mattress and his shoulders fell as he turned his gaze down to his hand.

He could see Sara before him, her back to him as she sat on the bed, her shoulders and torso bare, beautiful, smooth skin he would reach out to touch. He could see her head turned, a soft, sultry smile open in an invitation. He could see her beaming, laughing, fuming...crying. His lungs hurt. He felt empty. Sara crying. He could see her body tremble as tears swept over her. He could see her head tucked down, her frame curled, her arms wrapped around her. A tear slipped from his eye as though it was the most anguishing thing to see Sara cry, and it was. His eyes closed and he gathered her pillow to him.

He woke with his arms empty, facing the wall on his side. He hadn't remembered falling asleep and he wondered how long he'd been down. His back felt cool. He shifted and blinked as he slowly let the remnants of sleep drift off. "Is it me?" she asked, her voice so soft and so quiet.

He rolled over and faced her, looking at her form curled away from him. His hand lifted and landed softly on her shoulder and he sighed as she recoiled from his touch. He wanted to gather her in his arms and reassure her or apologize, do something to end the gnawing feeling of guilt that had come of his actions, but he only stared at her back. How could she question it? She was a scientist. How could she question it? It wasn't rational, nor was it reasonable. It wasn't Sara, but then again, emotion often made one blind to reason. He didn't know how to respond to her when she wasn't thinking reasonably. "Sara...no. You know better than that."

He shuffled towards her, but she shuffled away. He could see her shoulders shaking as barely concealed sobs racked her body. "Honey?"

"You've been gone for over six weeks." Her voice was low and quiet and filled with insecurity. "You come back and you won't touch me. You won't let me touch you. You keep easing away."

"We touch."

"No we don't. Not really. Not anymore. We hugged when you got back and you've given me a few light kisses everyday, but you've slipped away from every other contact. You won't let me touch you, not a brush, nor a caress." Her voice stopped short and he watched her choking on her words as she wept. "You used to hold my hand, play with my fingers, guide me by the small of my back, massage my feet as we read, graze your fingers down my arm..."

He reached for her again, only to watch her shrug away and he didn't understand it. Wasn't she saying she wanted to be touched, that she wanted him to touch her?

"You're pulling away."

Grissom rolled onto his back, his hands linked beneath his head. He sighed. He had been pulling away. He had been guiltily pulling away. He felt guilty every time she touched him and every time he backed away from the touch. How could he explain this? Something had happened on his last trip and it scared him. Every time she touched him, all he could see was what he stood to lose. The fear and the anxiety he felt had inhibited other biological functions. Every time Sara touched him, he felt those anxieties take over. Her touch burned him. It was seared into him and it hurt. He thought of what he'd done, the mistakes he'd made, how close he'd come to destroying everything. He was so, so sorry, for everything she did not know, and he wanted to touch her. He wanted to hold her, to cling to her, but he couldn't. Guiltily, he'd withdrawn.

In his mind, he'd rationalized that he didn't need to tell her. She didn't need to know. He'd risked his health by taking a stupid chance with deadly insect and had narrowly escaped being killed by that insect when his curiosity and poor judgment got the better of him. He'd been warned well in advance and yet, had moved in too closely in studying the venomous arthropod, frozen and watching on as it sprung forward at him. It was a stupid mistake. He wasn't going to disturb the insect, only get a slightly better look, but still, he of all people should have known better. Curiosity had definitely got the better of him. The insect had reacted to his curiosity, to his proximity. The bite and the paralysis that had followed scared the hell out of him. Luckily, he hadn't been too far out in the bush and had been in the company of quick thinking men who had the mindset to begin life-saving first aid measures before rushing him to a hospital. The narrow miss had left him thinking. It made him think of what he would have lost, what he could have caused Sara to lose and he'd thought against telling Sara. He'd wanted to shelter her, hadn't wanted to scare her. If he were honest with himself, he would have acknowledged that he didn't know how to tell her, that a part of him still didn't know how to share things very personal to him, including how he almost risked his life with her, that he still didn't know how to form certain sentences when it came to her. He had to tell her. His silence led to other avenues of thinking, ones he never wanted Sara to have to experience.

"Is it me?" she asked again.

He rolled back on to his side and watched her body tremble. How could she think he didn't desire her as fervently as ever? He knew there was nothing rational in her questioning, or in her tears, that it came from years of various abuses and insecurities. He knew that she'd fought to be rational, but had lost the battle to past experiences with other men and to blind emotion. He eased his body against hers, holding her tight to him when she wanted to squirm away and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "I love you, Sara."

Sara shook and sobbed harder.

"It's biology, honey. Maybe it's fear, or anxiety, but I promise you, it is not you, nor is it any indication of the state of our relationship. I'm afraid."

"Afraid of what?" she asked, her voice as venomous as the arthropod and tinged with skepticism.

"Of losing everything."

She turned and faced him. Her eyes were wide and filled with unshed tears. "What?"

Grissom swallowed. Slowly he went through the process of telling her. After she decked him, and made him promise not to keep something like that from her again, she laughed. She was still laughing when they made love later that morning. He fell into a second slumber pressed tightly to her, the entire length of their bodies touching.

He could see the trace of tears in her eyes from all he'd told her. His hands moved along her arms. Her hands moved up to press against his chest. "Gil, what?"

He shrugged. "There was blood in my stool."

Her leg slipped between his as she drew closer. "Okay, what does that mean? It could mean lots of things, couldn't it? I mean blood in the stool isn't all that uncommon."

Recurring and combined with his other symptoms, it was. "Honey, it happened more than once."

"Oh." She grew silent. Her hands slid up his chest and cupped his cheeks. "What does this mean?" she asked softly. "Another infection?" Her lips kissed his chin. "We'll make a doctor's appointment and figure it out."

"Honey," he began, his voice soft and the words slow, "I've been to Dr. Cochrane."

Sara was silent. Her wide eyes still red with the remainders of the tears not yet dry. He felt her move closer as though she was trying to be absorbed into him. He lifted one hand and combed her hair away from her face. He kissed her and kept his head close to hers. "Dr. Cochrane did a colonoscopy. He found a couple of polyps and removed them."

Sara's eyes closed. "Cancerous?"

"The results on that one aren't in yet."

"Gil..." Her arms wrapped around him. Her head fell into his shoulder. He held her trembling body and reveled in her breaths on his neck.

Waking, he reached for her and sighed as he felt the other side of the bed empty. His hand patted the empty spot and ran over the cool sheet. His head lifted and he looked around. Standing, he moved to the door and wandered about the quiet house, stopping only when he heard the clicking of a mouse coming from his office. He sighed again. She was still working, still hiding from him. He felt as though he was losing her. He wanted to go to her, to grasp her arm and pull her to him, but he was afraid if he did, he'd enter the room to see her quickly shrinking a screen. He returned to bed, grasping her pillow to his chest, hoping it would force her to wake him when she finally joined him.

He stared down at the floor in shock, his eyes on the normally durable laptop smashed by the force of his chuck. The laptop was split in two, the screen separated from the keyboard. There was a crack in the screen, a line running across, the color light along the edge of the fissure. Several keys of the keyboard were splayed over the floor and there was a second where he wondered if they spelled out anything before him. Jerk came to mind. So did stupid, brute, brutal, wild, hostile, hypocrite and a host of other words that only needed one of each letter to spell out how he felt at the moment. If he risked a glance up at Sara before looking back to the letters, he might also see hurt.

The rise and fall of his chest was heavy. His breaths were long and labored, but gradually slowing. His hands trembled. They felt hot. The tips of his fingers tingled. It felt as though there was a flood of heat moving through his forearms and collecting in his hands. His head ached.

He glanced down at his hands, and then back at the floor, his eyes wandering over scattered letters and staring again.

Chancing a glance up at Sara, he was surprised to find her absolutely still before him. She stared back at him and he shivered. He'd expected shock or hurt, but her eyes were cold. He expected her to kneel down and try to piece her laptop back together, to see if it would still work, to see if it could be salvaged, but she only turned from him and began to walk away.

"Sara, wait," he called out, striding after her and stepping on one of the keys. "Ouch! Damn it!" he yelled, lifting his foot and rubbing his sole and heel. Looking up ahead again, he watched Sara's disappearing form. She hadn't stopped. She hadn't turned to look back. She just kept moving away, her pace steady. Even her movements felt cold.

"Sara," he called again and rushed after her, the pads of his feet landing on a few more keys, but no longer bothering him. The ache in his heart far outweighed the ache in his foot. He moved past the debris and into his bedroom. Sara was sitting on the bed. Her hands were also trembling.

Gazing down at her, he felt himself pause. The weight of his actions plunged through him, leaving him aching. "Sara, I'm sorry."

Her eyes rose to his. "You asshole. Do you know what I lost?"

It wasn't any work. Sara had all of her work backed up several times over.

A tear slipped from her eyes and he moved, kneeling before her. Tentatively, his hands lifted and fell to her knees. "I'm sorry."

Sara shook her head. "No, you're not, not really," she whispered.

He wanted to deny it, but he said nothing. Her statement wasn't entirely inaccurate. He was sorry he'd hurt her, sorry, perhaps also, for breaking an expensive piece of equipment, but he was not sorry for separating her from it. That damn laptop had become an obsession. Every morning, all morning, when she should have been sleeping, she'd stayed up, tapping on its keys, ignoring his pleas for her to come to bed and to get some rest, or to even speak to him. He was losing her, before he should. And when he got up to try to draw her back to him, what did he find her doing? She wasn't working, nor was she wasn't researching. Every time he went to find her, he found her playing solitaire, over and over again, trying to beat her time, as though it was a compulsion. Her behavior had become so manic recently, and he feared for her. "It wasn't healthy, Sara. You've become obsessed…"

"What?" Sara glared up at him. "Are you saying I'm turning into my mother?"

He winced. He didn't mean that. He didn't. He was again dealing with an irrational Sara and he was not quite sure what to say or do. "No, Sara."

Sara let out a humorless laugh. "Maybe I am. Maybe this is some kind of psychotic break." She lifted her legs and curled onto the bed, away from him.

The behavior was disturbing to him. He'd expected yelling. He'd been spoiling for a fight. He'd wanted her to get mad and maybe, finally, tell him what was on her mind. He'd even expected her to be unreasonable, irrational. He didn't expect her to shut down like this. Not Sara. Not his Sara.

He reached out to touch her. She swatted away his hand. "Don't touch me! Don't you dare touch me."

His hand withdrew quickly. He stared at her curled form and dropped his forehead to the mattress. "Sara, you're not your mother." He glanced back up at her. Sara's form did not move. Apart from the slow, slight quiver of her back muscles as she breathed, she did not move at all.

"Schizophrenia is genetic." He watched the twitch of her back muscles as she spoke. "Mental illness is hereditary."

Letting himself think for a moment, he watched her. He knew what this was about and it wasn't about becoming her mother. It was about coping. Rising on his knees, he pushed himself up, leaning his elbows on the mattress. "That isn't what this is, Sara. This is fear and impotence, not mental illness."

Pushing off his elbows, he moved slowly, carefully, onto the bed. He reached out to touch her still form, but hesitated, his hand above her arm. It fell to his side and he dropped his head forward. "I'm scared too," he whispered.

Slowly Sara's face turned to his. "Why would you be scared?"

He shook his head slowly. "I'm losing you to these nightmares again, honey. I lost you to them once. I can't lose you to them again."

"I can't sleep," she whispered, turning over to face him and he took the opportunity to capture her in his embrace. Pushing back the hair from her forehead he brushed soft kisses over her skin. "I know," he whispered against her skin.

"I'm scared."

He nodded and held her tighter. "Quit, honey. Come and do research with me, like we had planned."

"I can't," she whispered. "Not yet."

He nodded again. She couldn't. He knew it more than anyone. She had to see this through, just as he had to see through his time remaining at the lab before. Maybe if she solved this last one, the case wouldn't haunt her anymore. She might still decide to stay at the lab after, but she would still be able to sleep again. "Rest with me, Sara. Let me chase those dreams away."

Sara nodded and curled further into him.


	10. Chapter 10

**X**

"I'm not so sure about this."

Grissom's eyes shot to Greg and he frowned. The only reason he'd asked Greg to take him here was because he'd assumed Greg would be the only one to not try and stop him. Greg had aged, matured, and become a very enjoyable and composed young man, but Grissom knew that, despite Greg's maturation over the years, Greg was still afraid of him. His eyes narrowed. He stared at Greg, watching Greg squirm slightly beneath the gaze.

Greg fidgeted, rocking on his two feet. "I don't know..."

Grissom's brown scrunched even more. He should have come without Greg. Greg didn't have to tag along. He was perfectly capable of making it places on his own. Greg was only there because he had caught Grissom leaving. Catherine had sent the younger man over to check up on him, Grissom was sure of it. Greg had shown up earlier that day with several bottles of water and a mission to keep him out of bed. Only Catherine could have sent him.

"Grissom, do you really think this is a good idea?"

Greg's face was full of concern. Grissom's eyes softened. He looked at the younger man, amazed how far Greg had come in the year's he'd known him. Greg had a wife now, a lovely young lady Sara had been very fond of. Greg also had a young son, Mats, who Sara had been equally fond of, and who stood now, holding his father's hand, quiet and looking every bit as dubious as his father. Grissom tried to give the young boy a reassuring smile, but felt he only came off as looking old and anything but reassuring.

His eyes moved back to Greg. He could see the younger man faltering. Greg's gaze flicked over to the operator, a young kid whose eyes were asking if he was serious. Has this young boy never seen an old man want to ride a rollercoaster before? Sure, the line for the rollercoaster was filled with people far younger than him, but did this coaster never see a sexagenarian before? Lots of older men did things far crazier than this. Did he just look older to these people, too old to handle the ride? That, he knew, was a distinct possibility. The young kid before him, the crowd behind him, all probably thought his heart couldn't take this. Likely, they thought he was well older than his sixty-five years. Perhaps they thought the rush of adrenaline would be too much for him. They probably saw bones cracking and a heart failing. What did they know? He was used to this. This would do nothing to his heart compared to the loss of Sara.

He'd only wanted not to feel for a short time. His dreams the night before had left him feeling hollow. Recollecting all those moments, those less than stellar moments, moments of fear and doubt, had reminded him how much they'd had to fight for it and how hard they'd battled for what they'd had. It was their worst moments that had shown him how important it was. He'd discovered how important she really was and he'd fought for her, knowing what it would do to him to lose her. He still didn't regret it, not one moment, despite how hard they'd had to fight for everything. It was always better to fight for something with another, even if he'd had to fight the very person he'd been fighting for. The dreams the night before had been the most haunting of all because they'd reminded him of what he'd lost far more than any of the others had. He'd lost everything. Now he was empty. Now he was hollow and he wanted to feel anything but hollow. He wondered what it would feel to have the wind flow right through what felt like an empty cavity. "It's fine," he grumbled, looking at the ride operator. The operator shrugged, but Greg still looked unsure. Grissom turned to Mats for help. "Don't you want to ride the rollercoaster?"

"Grissom, he's too young and too small."

"Oh." _Right_, he thought. He knew that, or should have known that. Mats was only four. Mats had been the excuse to have Greg take him to the amusement park, just as Greg had used Mats, no doubt, to get Grissom out. Grissom had watched Mats on a couple of the rides geared to small children, but he'd forgotten Mats limitations as soon as his ride, Bedlam, had come into sight. "Well, I guess it is just me."

"Grissom, I'm still not sure..."

"Greg, I've ridden this coaster a hundred times before."

"Alright. I'm uh, going to take Mats on a train ride. We'll come back here to meet you after."

Grissom nodded and watched Greg lead his son away. He wondered if Greg was taking Mats on that train ride so that Mats wouldn't be around should something happen. He wondered if he should be grateful for that.

The ride operator cleared his throat and Grissom tore his eyes from the two figures moving slowly away, Mats' mop of straight blonde hair flopping as he skipped forward. Grissom turned to the operator, wondering if he'd get more of a fight. The operator only shrugged and he stepped onto the platform and into a seat.

His hands pulled down on the restraint and he closed his eyes. Remembering when he'd taken Sara on this same coaster, his mind cleared and he could hear nothing but the sound of her laughter in his head. He could see her smile, her gasp, grin. Suddenly the ride began to move and he felt her slender hand grip his.

Dainty fingers curled into his palm as the coaster slowly ascended the track, making short clicking noises as it climbed. The coaster plunged and he could feel the wind push his skin back and her grip tighten. Shrieks were heard from cars in front and behind, but his car was silent. She gasped, but did not scream. He was focused too much on his heartbeat and her hand to say anything. Each dip and turn and corkscrew had her hand tightening her grip. He returned her grip, turning to smile at her, watching her giggle and smile in return. And then, the ride slowed to a stop and he opened his eyes. He was alone and gasping for air. His heart rate was much higher than it should be. He began to panic. His pulse was racing and he felt as though he was going to pass out. His heart continued to pound in his chest. He couldn't breathe. He stumbled from the rollercoaster, gripping his chest and still gasping for air. He collapsed in the exit, still trying to breathe, wondering just how fast his heart was beating.

He held up two fingers to his neck and tried to count beats. Too fast, his heart rate was too fast. People gathered around him and he could hear the young ride operator exclaim that he knew the old dude was too old for the ride. He wondered how everybody else saw him. Was he a pathetic old man to them, or just a sad one? Did they think he was senile and feel sorry for him? Did they know his heart was pounding out of his chest?

He was still trying to take his pulse and trying to breathe properly when someone asked if he had any family around. He tried to shake his head, but the ride operator told the woman inquiring that his son and grandson went for a train ride and left him there. There were murmurs of disapproval and he wanted to argue, to tell them that his son hadn't left him alone, that he didn't have a son, that it wasn't the rollercoaster that had his heart racing faster than what was healthy, but the momentary belief that his wife had been with him. He just couldn't get out the words.

He remained half slumped against the exit for some time. Medical personnel checked him out and told them they'd like to take him some place cool to rest, but he pushed them away. People had tried to help him move, but he'd shrugged them off, waiting for Greg to return. Some people walked around him. Others offered to keep him company. The medical personnel returned, one woman bringing him water, while the other man bringing him a cool cloth for his brow. The manager of the theme park bawled out the young man who'd let him on the ride, while security spoke to him, asking him again if he was capable of coming with them to a cooler place where he could rest and get out of the way. By that time, he could manage a strong, "no." He'd told Greg he'd meet him there.

Greg returned, jogging towards him, carrying Mats in his arms. He ignored the manager's apologies, pushed away the papers the manager had brought for Greg to sign and kneeled down next to him, setting Mats on the ground. "Grissom, what happened?"

He looked up at Greg, handing him the cool towel. "I couldn't breathe."

Greg stared at him. Mats place his small hand on Grissom's and held on.

"How are you feeling now? Any more trouble breathing?"

Grissom shook his head. His heart rate was still high, but it had begun steadily slowing once Greg came into sight. Breaths were still short, but at least he felt like air was coming in. He squeezed young Mats's hand and kept his eyes on Greg, Greg, who had always been so important to Sara.

"Sir, your father shouldn't have been on that ride. If you'll please sign this…"

Grissom watched Greg's gaze turn up to the man speaking. "He's not my father and he is perfectly capable of making those decisions himself."

"Sir…"

"Look, he isn't going to sue." Greg turned to him, "Are you Grissom?"

Grissom shook his head. "I want to go home."

Greg nodded. "Okay."

Greg stood, and extended his arm, helping Grissom up. Grissom stood on shaky legs, still gripping Mats's small hand in the one Greg hadn't taken. Greg came around, lifting Mats back into his arms and taking Grissom's elbow. "Are you alright?"

Grissom nodded. "Can you take me home, please?"

"Yeah, I'm taking you home right now, Grissom."

They walked slowly out of the theme park and into the parking lot. Greg helped him into the car and he leaned his head against the window. He didn't remember the drive home, just remembered Greg pulling up into the drive and stopping the car. Grissom stepped out, glancing at the sleeping boy in the back seat. He wondered, for a moment, what a child by him and Sara would have looked like. Would he have been as quiet and as sweet?

"Grissom?"

Grissom shook his head and turned to look at Greg.

"Are you okay to be here by yourself? I mean, I was going to pick up some ice cream for Casey, since she's been having these cravings for strawberry ice cream, and I promised her I wouldn't be gone too long, but…"

"I'm alright Greg. Go home to your wife."

Greg nodded. "Look, uh, call if you need anything, seriously…"

He nodded and moved to the door, opening it and stepping into the doorway. Turning around, he watched Greg go. He wondered how long it would be before Catherine came over.


	11. Chapter 11

**XI**

He shuffled through papers, trying to focus on the work before him. If he could only just work without his mind lapsing into other things, he might just be able to get through the rest of the day. Rollercoasters, as an outlet, weren't really an option anymore, he decided, quite ruefully. He needed to work. He just needed to work.

His hand ran through his hair. He looked down at the work before him and sighed.

"Gil, are you hungry?"

He looked up from his work, to the direction of the soft, smoky voice. He stood and moved to the kitchen, leaning in the doorway, watching her. "Not really. I thought you were helping me."

"I am, but I'm also worried about you. Have you eaten anything today?"

Her eyes were soft with her concern and he took a moment to appreciate how truly young and beautiful she was. It was something he'd taken for granted for far too long, along with her care for him. He nodded. "I had a bite of Mats's funnel cake and Greg forced a hotdog down my throat at the amusement park."

She scrunched up her face. "A hotdog?"

He moved in closer, placing his hands on her hips. "Yeah, sorry. Does this mean I don't get any kisses?"

Sara's head fell back with her laugh. Her arms wrapped around his neck. "Only if you haven't brushed your teeth."

Slowly, he shook his head. "I forgot," he whispered.

Her lips lifted to his and her mouth met his in a deep kiss. After a long moment, she pulled back, breaking the kiss. Her arms remained around his neck. He looked down at her, an eyebrow raised. "What happened to brushing my teeth?"

"Mmm, forgot," she whispered, kissing him again.

His fingers pulled on her back, pressing her into him. Hands splayed over her hips, he rubbed in small circles, continuing to kiss her.

"Honey," he started, his lips against hers.

"Hmm?"

He broke their kiss again. "I think work can wait."

Sara kissed him shortly and nodded. "If you say so."

He nodded and tugged her towards the sofa, laying back and watching her move over him. He lay back as she continued to kiss him, breaking their kisses only to pull her shirt up, over her head. He gazed up at her, half sitting so she could remove him of his own shirt. His hands worked on her bra, tossing it aside. His eyes drank in the sight of her slender lines and striking shape. His fingers ran softly over the gentle slope of each breast, and he watched the path they traced, still amazed at being allowed to touch such beauty. Thumbs brushed over the side of each curve. Her skin was so soft. She was so stunning. His head lifted to kiss her and then he let it fall back down. "I love you," he whispered, his hand running through her hair.

Sara dipped her head to kiss him again, her hair framing their faces. "I know," she whispered. Her hands slipped to his waist. "Are you sure you're up to this? The amusement park didn't wear you out?"

Grissom shook his head. His hands ran over her back.

"You sure? It was hot out today. Did you get enough water?"

Grissom's hands stilled on her hips. Something felt off. Water? What an odd question to ask at such a moment. He drank plenty of water; Greg had made sure of it. The amount of times he had to find a washroom...perhaps he was too old for the amusement park. Perhaps someone that had to urinate as often as he had shouldn't have been allowed on the rollercoaster.

He startled awake. Glancing around quickly, his heart began to race. He was on his sofa. There was work strewn out on the coffee table. He was alone. It wasn't real. It had felt so real, the blend of Sara with the events of the day. It wasn't real. It wasn't real. It wasn't real. Sara was gone. She'd left him and had carried away all of his love.

He couldn't breathe. His heart was beating way too fast again. Sara was gone, and thus, so was he. When had she become so much a part of him that to take her from him, took his self? He'd grown up without the belief in one person completing another. Self was self. Man may love another, but he made his own choices, took from life what he chose. He'd always been so independent, so self reliant. He'd chose that life, thinking he stood alone, thinking he only needed to stand alone. He'd known love could damage a person. He'd witnessed it first hand with the death of his father and the effect that had on his mother. But his mother had been so strong. She'd moved on. She may have wrapped a present for his father every Christmas, but she had been a strong, independent, intelligent woman, right up to her death. She had loved his father, but had not needed him to live. So, what was wrong with him? How could the self reliant man need someone else so much, he was lost without her? How could the man who'd built a life all of his own, feel incomplete without another, the other? It was because he was a different man. He'd changed. His self had formed from those in his life. His self had come from meeting Sara, from knowing her…from loving her.

He needed her. He was surviving, but not living. He couldn't recognize himself without her. His new self had come from losing her, only Sara was still a part of him. She'd always been a part of him, would always be a part of him. She had his heart. He'd given her his love. Now, he was dying without her.

Breaths still came in gasps. He'd choose not to breathe, but breathing was involuntary, and he could not help but to continue on, struggling to breathe, wishing it was something he could control. Breathing was involuntary. Loving Sara was not. He'd always loved her, despite how hard he'd fought no to. His only decision came in not fighting any longer. He'd chosen that life, and maybe it was that choice that made losing her so hard. He'd struggled with the choice for so long. So cautious; he'd been so cautious. Maybe it was having decided his life was hers that made this so hard. Maybe it was because he hadn't had the life with Sara he'd dreamed of. His mother had years with his father. They hadn't spent a night apart until his father died. They'd had time. He and Sara had spent far too many nights apart. So little of their marriage had actually been spent together. He'd been looking forward to the promise of when they would have that time together and maybe it was the loss of that promise that had him struggling so. They were supposed to have time, their time, and he felt he'd been robbed of it. He hadn't had the time he'd chosen to spend with his love, with Sara. It was more than that, he knew, but losing that time with her made him so angry. He had to rationalize his emotions just to try to find what sense of self he once had. He wanted to blame Sara for making him feel this way, but it hurt too much to blame Sara for taking away his time with her. Guilt gnawed at him whenever he felt himself blaming her for dying. It ripped him apart when he felt himself blaming her for causing him to fall in love. It had been his choice to let that love win. He could have resisted the pull to her, kept his distance, guarded his heart even more, but then, how could he when she was his everything, when it hurt him as much to deny her as to love her? She'd always been his heart.

His body slumped with his despondence. Choking on tears he tried to hold back, he closed his eyes and attempted to slow his breathing. He tried to focus on anything but thoughts of her and was left with the feeling that something was missing, something other than Sara. He felt naked. Quickly his hand lifted to his face and he glanced at his thin fingers, realizing his wedding band had slipped off. Jumping up in a panic, he fell to his knees on the floor, searching desperately for his ring within the cushions of the sofa. Coming up empty, he began reaching blindly beneath the sofa until his fingers found the ring. Still on his knees, he slipped the ring back on his finger, sliding it up and down the digit, staring at how thin his fingers had become within it. His ring finger was no longer large enough to hold the ring on. The ring would slip off again, and the panic would return because for some reason, losing his wedding ring made him feel his loss of her almost as much as the dreams did. Still on his knees, he fell forward onto his elbows, closing his left hand in a tight fist, his pinky and middle finger squeezing in so that the band dug painfully in against his skin. Sara was gone and at times he felt the ring was all he had left.

He still couldn't breathe. He remained on his elbows and his knees, his clammy forehead pressed to the floor, mouth open in a gasp, a silent wail caught in his throat. He had to wake without her, feel her loss all over again, feel how real the dream had felt, feel her loss even more with the temporary loss of his wedding ring and he couldn't breathe, only he was still breathing because breathing is involuntary. Breaths were still coming in and out. Oxygen was still filling his lungs, entering his bloodstream, moving into his heart and other organs, keeping him alive, but not really living. He couldn't will away his life, no matter how he yearned for the end of it. He couldn't will away his body's biological functions. Perspiration trickled into his eyes and he closed them against the sting. His head lifted, eyes opened and he glanced quickly around the room again. He was still alone. His heart was still beating way too fast. Even as he gasped for air, he still felt he couldn't breathe. He was covered in sweat, had to use the washroom and he couldn't breath. A shower, he needed a shower. A steaming hot shower would help him forget, if only just for a short time.

Standing, he stumbled to the washroom. After relieving himself and discarding his cloths, he climbed into the shower, turning on the taps so that steam immediately filled the room. The shower was so hot, he only lasted a few short minutes before he felt he was going to pass out. He stayed under the spray, struggling to stand, to breathe and struggling to forget how real Sara had felt above him.

His mind raced as the dream replayed and his own words pounded in his ears. _I love you_. In the dream, she hadn't returned it and he wondered when he'd first heard her say it. He remembered the first time he'd spoken those words. He'd been seated next to her hospital bed, still so shaken by what had happened and he'd known that he had to let her know how he felt. He didn't remember the first time Sara told him she loved him though. With her, the sentiment seemed a given, as though the words had always been around, had always been expressed. She had told him early and she had told him often. Even when their relationship was new and fragile, she still hadn't been afraid to express her heart. He'd always known. He'd never had to question. It was written in her eyes and in her voice and in her touch.

The steam permeated his brain and he felt dazed. He tried to remain under the spray until he felt breathing was impossible and he knew he wouldn't be able to stand any longer. His hands reached for the tap, turning off the water. He let his body slump until he was seated on the edge of the tub. Breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in uneven, erratic movements, he grasped at the rail and hung his head. Still trying to suck in air, still trying to forget and still trying to remember, he let his thoughts drift to a hot bath, falling into the tub, steam lulling him to sleep, drifting off and slipping into a comfortable unconsciousness.

Shaking his head at his thoughts, he moved to stand. His head felt heavy with his thoughts and with the heat. Swaying on his feet, he slipped and crashed back down into the tub, his hip landing painfully on the edge. Crying out, he adjusted to take the weight off one side. Half seated in the tub, he wondered if he'd broken a hip. It was a common condition amongst the elderly, one that would surely strike him as readily as it struck so many others. Furthermore, the bathroom was the most common place for such an accident, especially in those approaching the not so golden years of their existence. Why would he escape it? He was as weak and frail and fragile as so many others. He deserved no better a fate than to add a broken body to his list of ailments. Would he be found like this, cold and alone, naked in his bathtub? It was a humiliating thought.

He shifted again, his shoulder blades digging into the porcelain corners of his bathtub. He felt so old. The process of aging was really, a particularly vulgar thing. Aging robbed a man of everything. A clever thief, it only stole bits at a time. It could be identified, but never caught. Instead, it flaunted its vulgarity and continued on, taking that which was most important, leaving only infinite longing in its wake. It deprived some of their thoughts, memories, abilities, beauty and reason. From the fortunate man, it merely stole energy, health, love, humanity, and eventually, it took from him, life.

His hip was not broken. Even as he shifted again and felt a flood of pain channel into his bones, he knew he did not break a hip. He couldn't be so fortunate. No, he was merely sore, his pride hurt as he chose to lie in the tub over a bruise rather than a break. He wanted his hip to be broken. He wanted to be so injured, the physical pain would finally dull emotional. The porcelain of the tub felt cool and he was content to lie in the uncomfortable position, letting his aches settle in so that he did not have to think about what was really hurting him.

He stared down at his body, naked and thin, vandalized by liver spots and wrinkles, and now, blotches of red, bruises at the very dawn of their formation. His insides, those which he could not see, had been defiled by loss. He was no longer. His humanity had vanished. It had died with Sara and he was left with this vulgar existence, a man whose only remaining purposes were to urinate and defecate. Just thinking about it stirred his bowels and made it apparent his period of self pity in the bathtub had come to an end. He had to serve one of his remaining purposes.

One hand on the bathroom rail, the other flat against the edge of the tub, he struggled to his feet, his hip sore but supporting the rest of his body. Slowly he lifted one foot and placed it on the cool tile of the bathroom floor. Half out of the tub, the hand that had been resting on the bathtub's edge, reached out for the support of the wall. The doorbell rang and he groaned. It was Catherine. Of course it was Catherine. She had impeccable timing.


	12. Chapter 12

**XII**

Lifting his head, he gave it a gentle shake and stepped fully out of the bathtub. Standing naked in his bathroom, he felt the remaining damp spots on his body tingle under the room's fan. Slowly he moved to the toilet and relieved himself.

He sat on the toilet, even after finishing, staring out at the wall. After a few moments, he pushed himself up, flushed the toilet and washed his hands. His hands reached for a towel and he wrapped it around his torso, trying to knot it on the side. His fingers could not seem to tie the towel tight enough. His gaunt body could no longer support the towel on his hips and he felt it slipping. He sighed and held the knot in one hand, reaching for the bathroom door with the other and moving into the bedroom.

His eyes were on the floor, watching his steps, as he entered the room. He heard a slight noise and his eyes lifted. His towel fell from his hand and slipped to the floor. "Sara," he whispered.

She rushed to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her face buried itself in the crook of his neck. He could feel her eyelashes brush against his skin, leaving it slightly moist and he knew she had been crying.

His arms wound around her. Her mouth landed on the hollow in his throat. She began to brush urgent kisses against his neck, drawing skin into her mouth and releasing it. Her body lifted against his as she pressed herself tighter to him, moving her lips along his jaw. Then, she pushed back, pulling her frame from his arms.

He stood, breathing heavily, his hands clutched as his sides, as her lips slowly moved across his chest. She stood again, wrapping one arm around his back, her hand splayed out. Her other hand reached down and fisted around him, sliding back and forth. His head fell back and his eyes slammed shut. His hands reached blindly for her waist and he rocked into her hand.

"Gil? Gil? Oh, Jesus. Gil! Uh, Gil!"

His eyes shot open. Catherine stood before him, her mouth slightly open. Turning her face to the side, she reached up and blocked her eyes with her hand. Beyond her he could almost see Sara's slight smirk. She disappeared and he shook his head, seeing only Catherine, still standing there, her hand still blocking her eyes.

Grissom's eyes shot to the floor, to the towel pooled at his feet, and then, up to his hand grasping himself. He reached down quickly, picking up the towel and wrapping it around his waist, holding it in the one hand and trying desperately to tie a knot. "Catherine, what are you doing in my bedroom?"

Her hand dropped and she turned to face him. "Sorry, I was…" He could see her mouth twitch and he knew she was trying not to laugh or to smirk.

"Something amusing?"

"No. Oh, no. God, no."

He stared at her and watched as her lips betrayed her. She was trying very hard to contain her mirth. "So glad I could entertain you."

"I'm sorry. It isn't funny. It really isn't." She had found the decency to look serious.

His brow lifted. He didn't know what was worse, that she either found his aging body amusing, or that she may have instead found it repulsive. He turned quickly, walking over to the dresser, pulling out a t-shirt and lifting it over his head.

"Gil, your towel…"

He looked down and saw his towel slipping again. He pushed his hips against the dresser, hoping to pin the towel and knowing it was a mistake as he felt a wave of pain wash through the hip that he'd hurt in the bathtub. Still, he kept it pinned, his body holding it so that it covered at least part of his back side. He didn't dare look back at Catherine, but kept his face towards the dresser. "If you'll excuse me."

"Yeah. Sure. I'll…uh…be right outside."

He waited to hear the click of the door closing before pushing off from the dresser and letting the towel fall to the floor. He pulled the t-shirt the rest of the way on, finished dressing and then, sat on the bed. He let out a long sigh, knowing he could not keep Catherine waiting forever.

Stepping into the living room, he sat on the opposite side of the sofa from Catherine. He closed his eyes against the humiliation and realized he was angrier than he was humiliated, though he wasn't sure if it was because Catherine had the audacity to barge in on him, or if it was because she'd interrupted his reverie of Sara. He opened his eyes and looked over at her. "What possessed you to believe you can just walk in on me in my bedroom?"

Catherine sighed. "Gil, I'm really sorry. I am. I came over to check up on you and you weren't answering, so I got worried."

He frowned. "You don't need to check up on me."

Catherine cocked her head to the side. She stood up and paced. "Uh, yeah, I do. In case you forgot, you haven't been making the healthiest of choices. Greg called me."

"He didn't need to."

Catherine spun on him. "Yes, Gil, he did. You scared the hell out of him. He didn't want to leave you and he would have stayed with you if he didn't have a very pregnant wife at home. What possessed you to think you could ride a roller coaster?"

"I've been riding coasters all my life."

Catherine shook her head. He stared up at her and noticed how exasperated she looked. He let his eyes wander over the lines on her face. For the first time ever, Catherine looked as though she was aging. She wasn't so young any more either and he wondered why he hadn't noticed it until now. Was he aging her? How many of her lines had come from him? She shook her head, looking almost resigned and he was surprised by the pang in his heart.

Catherine sat next to him. She spoke softly, "I think you need a new outlet. Gil, your heart can't take that anymore."

He nodded softly. "I know."

Grissom looked down at his hands in his lap. Beside him, he heard Catherine let out a small, incredulous laugh. "Greg said you kicked up quite a fight just to be allowed on the roller coaster." She paused and he looked over at her to see her shake her head. "I'm glad you're fighting for something."

Grissom shook his head. He'd only been fighting to try and forget, and maybe, also, for what remained of his pride, though his sense of that was quickly diminishing. Parts of him were dying everyday. There wasn't much left of him anymore.

It was silent for a moment. He turned his stare back to his lap and felt Catherine's eyes studying him. "You are alright now though, right?"

His eyes closed. "I'm bleeding, Catherine."

Catherine moved quickly, taking his words literally. She pushed herself up from the sofa and kneeled before him. Her fingers moved over him. "What? Where?" She gently prodded, searching for, he suspected, signs of blood. "Gil?"

He shook his head. Catherine sat back on her heels and sighed. "What am I going to do about you?"

_Let me be, _he thought, but then he looked up at her weariness and wondered if he was draining the life from her as well. "I don't know, but I'm alright now."

Catherine placed a hand on his knee. "Are you?"

He nodded. Catherine stared at him and nodded in return. "Okay." She stood and walked over to the door before turning back to him. "Listen, I'll come by tomorrow and we'll go out. Maybe we can find you a new, more heart smart outlet."

Grissom nodded. He watched as Catherine slipped out the door, and then stared forward at the wall until he lost track of how long he'd been staring forward. After some time, he tried to lie on his side on the sofa, but a jolt of pain shot through his pelvis. He pushed himself up into a seated position and rubbed his hip. Ice, he needed ice. He stood up, tottering over to the kitchen. "Honey, I need some ice."

Sara appeared from the kitchen carrying an ice pack. "Your hip is sore now, isn't it?"

He nodded.

"Okay, let's go lay you down."

Grissom followed her into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, his gaze following each of Sara's movements. Sara moved to stand in front of him. His eyes moved along her hips, up to her stomach.

"Well?"

He glanced up to see Sara raise an eyebrow. "Hmm?" he asked.

Sara shook her head. "On your back or on your side?"

He cocked a brow. Sara laughed. "Not sure you're up to that just yet, Romeo."

She reached up and pushed against his chest until his back was on the mattress. "So?"

"Back," he answered, inching backwards on the bed so that he could lie down. His head fell against the pillow. The mattress dipped as Sara climbed onto the bed beside him. Folding her legs under her, she sat and tugged on his t-shirt, pulling it up to reveal his skin beneath. Her fingers, so cold as always, curled under his pants' waist and gently tugged it down. Her fingers grazed over his hip. "It's starting to bruise," she whispered. Then, her lips, her warm, wonderful lips, landed softly on his hip and he closed his eyes to the feel of her tender kisses. The feel of her lips disappeared from his skin, leaving only tingling remnants of the touch. He opened his eyes as she slowly lowered the ice pack to his hip.

Grissom sucked in a breath through his teeth and winced as the ice pack made contact. Sara's free hand moved to his hair, combing through gently. His hand lifted, tucked itself beneath her shirt and brushed lightly along her spine, her skin so soft beneath his touch. It had always been so soft…

He wasn't aware of drifting off, but he woke some time later. Turning on his side, his sore hip elevated, he reached for Sara, whispering tender affections into her ear and brushing kisses over her skin. He pecked softly, over and over. Something felt off. Slowly his eyes opened and Sara's form blurred before him. He blinked several times before the haze cleared. He looked down into his arms, to where he'd been kissing. Great, he'd been romancing a pillow.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **I am so terribly sorry about the delay in updating. I have rewritten this chapter so many times, tweaking it constantly, not quite satisfied with the outcome. I think I've finally reached a level of contentment and taking a deep breath, I now post it. Thank you to anyone who is sticking with this. I'm sure I forgot to respond to the reviews from the last chapter, so to everyone who sent one, a million thanks and thank you also to those reading this.

**XIII**

Watching the light filter in through the drawn shades of the window, he wondered how long he'd been drifting. In and out of sleep. In and out of the dreams and memories of her. In and out of what remained of his existence.

He let his eyes fall closed and his thoughts drift back to another memory as the concerto began to play again through his mind. Their first…kiss. Their first morning together. The first time he'd allowed himself to really touch her. The first time he woke to her soft smile.

He'd gone to her apartment without a reason, without an excuse, without any rationalization as to why he should be there that morning. Knocking on the door, he stood unmoving as he waited for her to answer. She opened the door in a tank top, slim fitting jeans, bare feet and a ponytail that reminded him of when they'd met. With only a furrow of her brow and a stunned hello, she let him pass by, allowing him into her apartment.

Standing across from her, he watched her head cock to the side. There was a question on her lips, he thought, but she did not raise it. Still, he shrugged in response to the unspoken question.

They sat across from each other, staring at the other, she likely waiting for him to speak, he searching for the words. Her legs came up, bent at the knee, feet resting on the coffee table. Her arms wrapped around them. It felt like deja-vu, only he wasn't demanding answers she didn't want to give, or watching her fold into herself as her past came out. He was here for other reasons, reasons he'd yet to voice.

He'd expected questions. He'd expected she demand to know why he was there. This was Sara. She was always questioning him and when he'd made the choice to come, he'd expected it of her. He hadn't expected her to let him in without a word. He hadn't expected her quiet acceptance of his presence in her apartment. She was silent. As was he. She didn't ask why he was there, nor did he try to offer an explanation. He merely let his eyes trail over her, bare toes to beautiful facial features. His eyes landed on hers and held her gaze.

In the vague recess of his mind, he was aware of each breath he took, deep and heavy. He could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest with each one. Each breath was a second passing, another second of cautious thinking, of preparing, of waiting…of making her wait.

He shifted forward and the movement caused Sara's gaze to break from his. She looked away and then stood. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? A beer? Juice? Water?" Her eyes glanced back to his and he shook his head slowly, speaking softly. "No."

Sara turned away again. "I'll…uh… I'm just going to get myself something. I'll…um…be right back."

He watched her move towards the kitchen, but only for a moment. His eyes cast a quick glance around the room, and then he stood and followed the path she'd taken.

It was somewhat comforting to watch her hand shake slightly as she reached for a glass from the cupboard and then tremble further as she held the glass below the tap to fill with water. Did she sense his reason for coming? With each passing day, he'd felt this moment approaching. Had she felt it too?

He stepped behind her, his heart beating quicker as he felt the warmth of her back on his chest. His long breaths landed on her neck. Slowly, he placed his arms around her, his right hand turning off the tap, his left sliding down her arm, to her wrist and removing the glass from her hand, placing it in the sink.

Sara turned quickly, her eyes wide, astonishment evident. He stared at her for only a moment before his gaze flickered to the thin straps of her tank top and then back to her eyes. His eyes fell back to the thin strap. His fingers lifted and slid both the tank strap and her bra strap over her shoulder. Slowly, his mouth fell to her shoulder, placing light kisses over her soft skin.

His hands gripped her waist. Her head fell to the side. One of her hands came up to grip his arm along the triceps, and he tugged at her waist, suckling lightly and briefly allowing himself to imagine he had her closing her eyes to the sensation. It would have been very satisfying to know he'd caused her to close her eyes in pleasure.

His mouth moved along her collarbone, to the crook of her neck, up along her jaw and then, finally, to her mouth. Sara's other hand came up to his shoulder as he kissed her deeply, breaking the kiss only to breath and move in for another.

"Grissom," he heard her whisper through the fog he'd fallen into and he glanced at her to find her eyes closed and a small smile playing on her lips. It took less than a second to move in for another kiss, hard and deep and making way for several others. It was electric. His hands moved around to the small of her back, tugging her closer. Her hands slid over his shoulders to his back, tugging his upper body in return. After numerous kisses, he stepped back. "Sara, I…" He stared at her, not knowing what to say, how to explain…

Sara's hands moved to his face. She stared back at him. Then, she pulled him in for another kiss and they were just as they'd been moments before, arms wrapped around one another, lips meeting in long kisses, breaking only for breaths.

His hands gripped her tank top and pulled her in even closer. His fingers slipped beneath the material, landing on her skin and he groaned between kisses. His hands were beneath the tank top, pushing it up along her sides. "Tell me to stop, Sara," he whispered desperately.

She shook her head. "Not a chance." She kissed him again. "If you want this to stop, you'll have to stop it yourself." Her lips moved to his jaw, along the edge of his beard. He tilted his head back for her and felt her lips move along his throat. He groaned. "I don't want it to stop."

Sara grinned and he was back to kissing her mouth and running his hands over her skin beneath her tank top. Her fingers gripped his belt. He broke the kiss and stared at her, watching as her eyes sought consent. He gave a small nod and moved his mouth back to her jaw as she worked his belt from him.

It was a jumble after that. They continued to kiss as clothes were removed with great haste, each stripping the other, her fingers hurriedly working the buttons from his shirt, his hands sliding her tank top up and over her head, other pieces of clothing falling in place along route to her bedroom. Her movements were feverish and dizzying as she pulled him onto the bed and he found the need to slow down. It was too quick. He didn't want this experience to pass by so quickly.

Breaking another kiss, he placed a hand on her shoulder, and gently pushed her back onto the bed. He took a few deep breaths and stared down at her, his gaze wandering over her nearly naked body, her bra and underwear the only things left to remove. He could feel her eyes on him and he let his gaze drift to hers, taking in the dark brown of her eyes as she watched him. His hands grazed along her sides and then over the bare skin of her stomach. His mouth followed and he explored her leisurely, thoroughly, slowly removing the last two remaining items of clothing in the process. The last of his clothing followed. Then, they were a tangle of arms and legs. There were a few missteps in the beginning, made easier by Sara's throaty chuckles, and then, they were joined, moving together, staring into each other's eyes as they moved.

There was so much he wanted to say, to tell her, how beautiful she was, how he felt about her, but the words were caught in his throat. Every so often, between moans and shallow breaths, he gasped out her name, but could not get any thing else out. He settled for staring at her, and kissing her when her fingers slid over his cheek and along his jaw and her mouth lifted to his. Then, he collapsed above her, rolled to his side and held her in his embrace, his finger tracing over her arm as she curled into him.

She fell asleep before him, shifting comfortably and lying on her stomach, her back exposed. He lay on his side, not quite ready for sleep to steal the moment away from him. He took the time to admire her beautiful form, the delicate curve of the small of her back, the perfect rounding emerging from that dip. His finger swept lightly over her spine. He pressed a kiss to the back of her shoulder and joined her in sleep.

He awoke to her watching him, a soft smile adorning her face, hope and acceptance in her eyes. She still did not ask any questions or demand any explanations, but seemed to know that he could not take this big of step lightly. He gave her a small smile and watched as her smile widened. He could do nothing but tuck her into his side, wrap his arms around her and kiss her brow softly.

His eyes flickered as he tried to blink away the moisture. He glanced around the room where they had made love so many mornings. He could still feel her. Her soul was still in the room. It had been his that had been taken with her death.

He was tempted to just lie there and float in and out of reverie, but Catherine had booked him a doctor's appointment later in the morning. How she'd managed to get him in on such short notice, he did not want to begin to contemplate. He'd learned long before never to underestimate her tenacity or her influence. As much as he wanted to idle away the day in bed, he knew he should get up. Besides, it was hot, and the room felt stuffy, and he needed some air.

He threw off the sheet covering him and sat on the edge of the bed. As he moved, a sudden, short pain burst through his hip and he rubbed at the ache. His back cracked and his joints creaked when he stood, and inwardly, he noted that his body was likely deficient in calcium. His hand placed behind his hip, he toddled over to the window and opened it. Warm air pushed its way in and he closed his eyes.

Outside he could hear the sounds of life and he stood, listening. The distant hum of engines. The louder hum indicating a car driving past nearby. A dog barking. A laugh. Broken bits of conversation. The rattle of a law mower. The shuffle of quiet steps along the sidewalk. Wheels turning over pavement. A skateboard? A bike? A stroller?

He felt warm arms wrap around his stomach, the warmth of something pressed to his back, a cheek resting on his shoulder. "What are you doing?" she whispered.

"Listening."

Sara was silent behind him, likely in quiet contemplation. Her arms squeezed tighter. He felt her breath land on his ear. "Just listening?"

Her soft breaths were warm on his neck. He nodded.

They stood there for moments, he listening for the sounds on the street but only hearing her gentle breaths, she quietly accepting his need to listen. Then, he turned and grasped her delicate arms softly. "Good morning."

Sara smiled. "Good morning."

"Are you hungry?"

She shrugged. "Getting there."

"What do you want for breakfast?"

One of her eyebrows rose. "Are you offering to cook?"

He shrugged and watched as her smile blossomed. Her arms wrapped around his back and she kissed his chin. "Surprise me."

Giving her a soft kiss, he pulled from her embrace. He moved to the kitchen, glanced at the bananas on the counter and began looking through cupboards. They were bare but for the instant food he'd bought a few days before. His eyes wandered over some of the items in the cupboard. When had he started eating pop tarts? He shook his head. He would need to go out for supplies.

Grissom slipped back into the bedroom, eyes briefly scanning over Sara as she dressed, before he pulled on his own cloths. He sat on the edge of the bed and slipped on his sneakers, tying the laces. "I'll be back."

Sara smirked. "Takeout doesn't really count, you know."

He stood and scrunched up his face in mock annoyance on the way out of the bedroom. Grabbing his keys and his wallet, he exited the condo and began the short walk over to the nearest store.

Entering the store, he decided he would surprise Sara with her favorite – Eggs Florentine. His eyes cast over the isles and he moved through the appropriate ones, spinach, parmesan cheese, feta, lemon juice, the ingredients for Mornay sauce minus the spices he likely still had at home, and English muffins. After he picked up everything he thought he needed, he moved to the checkout, waited for the cashier to ring through his items, and then began the warm walk back to their home.

Stepping inside, he slipped off his shoes, passed Sara working away on her laptop on the sofa, moved down the steps, into the kitchen and began making their breakfast.

His eyes glanced up to the back of Sara's head and he could not help the smile that spread over his face. He let the smile settle and continued to mix the Mornay sauce.

Carefully poaching the eggs, he put on a pot of coffee, toasted the English muffins, assembled the Eggs Florentine and called Sara down to eat. They ate slowly, sipping on their coffee and discussing things inconsequential. When finished, he rose, took their plate and placed them in the sink. He turned back to the table, where Sara had left her coffee, and frowned. How did they happen to have two Eggs Florentine left over?

A dull ache struck at his heart and left him with an ill feeling in his stomach. He closed his eyes briefly, shook his head sadly and put the food away.

He wondered if he could work. If he were lucky, work would distract him. He moved to the living room and seated himself on the chair, his work before him. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. Taking a few deep breaths, he looked at his work and thought he just might be able to get lost in it for awhile. Checking his watch, he realized he could work for about an hour before he had to head into the doctor's appointment Catherine had made him.

Carefully lifting and studying each carefully preserved image printed out before him, he let a wistful smile cross his face. His fingers danced over his laptop as he rearranged notes into informative paragraphs, creating cohesive passages for young entomologists to follow. Every so often, he paused in his typing to lift up another image and marvel at the beauty that had been captured, and then, at the beauty that he'd failed to capture. The still photo could not portray the exquisiteness of movement, nor could it do justice to the vivid colors only visible to the lens of the eye.

Later, the cramping of his hands was a pretty good indication that it was time to stop. He checked the time on his laptop and discovered that it was nearly so. He'd been working for fifty-five minutes, five minutes short of the hour he'd given himself. Deciding he would not accomplish much in the extra five minutes, he closed the laptop and stood, stretching out his muscles.

He moved about the condo, getting ready to go and searching for the items he needed to take with him. His wallet and keys were where he'd left them, in the kitchen, next to a plastic bad that had contained his breakfast groceries. Swiping them up in his hand, he made a hasty exit out of the kitchen. The doorbell rang.

Immediately, he was annoyed. He knew it was Catherine. Either she hadn't trusted him enough to remember his appointment, or had figured he would blow it off. A frown on his face, he moved to the door and swung it open. His frown dropped and his whole face fell. He'd been prepared to deal with Catherine. He hadn't been prepared for him.

"Nick," he stated.

"Hey, Grissom."

"Catherine sent you."

Nick shifted on his feet. "Yeah. She's in an appointment that seems to be running a little long, so she called and asked if I could drive you to yours."

He frowned again. "I'm perfectly capable of driving myself."

Nick looked uncomfortable. Briefly he wondered if Nick's discomfort matched his own. He watched as Nick raised an appeasing hand. "I know, Griss, but you know Catherine."

He sighed in surrender. "Yeah."

"If we don't humor her, neither of us will hear the end of it. Anyways, she's going to meet us there and drive you home. I'm due in court this afternoon, so I'll have to leave you once I drop you."

As Grissom felt the relief sweep through him, he knew he had to make some effort to conceal it. He wondered at how successful he'd been. Nick was looking at him the same way, none the wiser. Grissom turned away. "I'll be right back."

Leaving Nick in the doorway, he ambled down the stairs and into his bedroom. Sara was on the bed, sitting cross-legged, leafing through a magazine. She looked up at him and smiled. "Hey, you off?"

"Yeah." He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her lips. "It shouldn't take long. I'll be back in a couple of hours, tops."

"Good luck," she whispered.

He stood back up and smiled. "Thanks." He moved towards the bedroom door and glanced back at her. "I'll see you later."

"Grissom, who are you talking to?"

Grissom whipped around and saw Nick standing there. He frowned and stepped past the younger man. "No one. Let's go."


	14. Chapter 14

**XIV**

He watched as Nick fiddled with the dials for the air conditioning, trying to make him feel more comfortable. It didn't seem to matter how high Nick turned up the A/C; he still felt as though there wasn't enough air, or that it wasn't moving. He felt trapped in the vehicle, fighting for breaths, needing an escape. He tried to ignore Nick's monologue, letting his mind wander to other things and struggling to block out Nick's voice. Why had Catherine's meeting ran so long? Why couldn't she have trusted him to get himself to his doctor's appointment? He turned his head quickly and looked out the window, focusing on the passing streets rather than on Nick. Taking a deep breath, he counted the seconds it took to exhale.

The traffic was surprisingly light and the ride passed mercifully quicker than it normally would, though it made him quite early for his appointment. It wasn't a moment too soon for Grissom though, who shot out the door and hobbled into the building, Nick following behind. As he approached the check-in counter, he felt Nick arrive behind him. He gave his name, took a seat and watched as Nick pulled out his cell phone.

Nick ran a hand through his hair, checked his watch, spoke a few parting words and hung up the phone. Grissom watched as Nick approached. He eyed the empty chair, wondering if Nick would take a seat. His body rigid, he felt his breath collecting and holding in his chest cavity.

"Sorry, Grissom, I have to get going. Catherine should be here soon."

Grissom nodded and exhaled slowly in relief. It took an effort to form his next words. "Thanks Nick."

"You alright waiting here alone?"

He nodded quickly. "I'll be fine."

Nick looked unconvinced. He wondered if Nick had any idea that he would be more comfortable alone than in Nick's company. Guilt at entertaining such a thought gnawed at him.

He felt Nick's eyes on him, examining him. "Okay," Nick let out slowly. He turned to leave, but looked back. "You sure? I might be able to wait for Catherine to show."

"Go, Nick."

After Nick left, Grissom stood, looking around for a washroom to use. He hadn't mentioned anything to Nick, but he'd spent the entirety of their conversation having to go. He would have used that for an excuse to rid himself of the younger man, only he wasn't so sure Nick wouldn't follow him into the washroom to make sure he could go alright. It was absurd and unfounded and totally unlikely, but the thought prickled at his mind. It was irrational, but after the way Nick had been watching him… Besides, he wasn't sure what Catherine had told Nick when she asked Nick to pick him up. She could have told him anything. She could have told him what had happened with Greg and Mats, and Nick, ever dependable Nick, might have felt he needed to accompany him into that washroom to make sure he didn't suffer any other ludicrous breakdowns.

Finding the public washroom, Grissom closed the door to the large room and placed his hand on the bar for the people in wheelchairs. His head down, he tried to allow his last humiliating thoughts to pass before relieving himself. He certainly didn't want to think of Nick in that room with him as he went. Improbable as the scenario was, it still played on his irrational mind. Sighing, he wondered when he'd become so illogical.

He finished up, managing to relieve himself in between disturbing images of Nick. Well, at least he knew that if he ever really had to go at night and didn't want to get out of bed, he could summon up those images and likely cure himself of the need. No, he thought, it wouldn't work. His bladder would still be full, nocturia may turn into incontinence and he would surely give himself a new bout of nightmares.

From the washroom, he moved to the admission desk and set about changing his emergency contact to Catherine. He hadn't wanted to do it with Nick around, worried about a pitying glance from Nick, or some other glance, or a decision from Nick to stick around and keep him company. Besides, he had a feeling that Nick knowing he hadn't yet changed it from Sara would open up a new sting, though for whom, he was not sure.

Sitting back down in an empty seat, he thumbed through a magazine for women, bypassing the travel, sports and automotive magazines also lying about. Catherine arrived at about his second article in. He glanced up as she tipped the magazine down and read the article's caption.

"Beauty beyond 50? Interesting choice in reading material, Gil."

He frowned and closed the magazine. It wasn't as though he had really been reading it. He'd been more scanning through it to keep himself occupied. He had chose that magazine because automotive would remind him of watching her in coveralls, checking out the undercarriage of a car, sports would remind him of teaching her about baseball stats, watching ball games together, or watching her smirk as he scoffed at other forms of sport, and travel would remind him of places he'd been with her. Ironically it the woman's magazine seemed the least likely to remind him of her. Still, as he'd scanned the magazine and the title of the article, he hadn't been able to avoid thinking of Sara and how she would have felt about how she looked and felt at fifty. She'd been so close…

If she'd questioned it, he would have told her how beautiful he still found her, how he was still so in awe of her, and it would have been true. He'd watched her past forty, almost with a measure of small relief, as they were finally on the same side of that proverbial hill that had been defined by the life expectancies of their generations, even if it was the side leading down. She hadn't made it very far down the hike though.

"Gil?"

Catherine voice caused him to look up and he realized he'd been caught in a trance, staring at a point beyond her, though he wasn't sure what the point had been. He'd broken the stare though, had snapped out of it, and wondered if it wasn't the only thing she'd wanted him to snap out of. Nobody had said anything, but every so often he could catch a glimpse into certain people waiting for him to snap out of his despair and get on with his life, as though it was something he could just snap out of, as though healing was instant.

"Sorry," he said, shaking his head and glancing around the room. He could feel Catherine's eyes trained on him, but he couldn't meet them. He found himself looking anywhere but.

"Dr. Grissom?"

The woman's voice saved him from having to continue to elude Catherine's glance. He looked up at the young woman. "Yes?"

"Dr. Cochrane will see you now."

He nodded and stood. Catherine grasped his arm. "I'll be right out here."

He turned back to her and nodded again. "Thanks." Turning back, he followed the nurse into the office who had, for the past several years, been his and Sara's physician.

Grissom seated himself in a chair, waiting for Dr. Cochrane to enter. When the gentleman entered, Grissom found himself standing. "Sit back down, Gil."

Obediently, he sat.

"You haven't been in for an appointment in quite awhile."

Grissom shrugged. What was there to say? He had no one to stay healthy for?

"I see you were just admitted to Desert Palms for dehydration."

He nodded.

"They wanted to run a MSE at the hospital, but your colleague, the one who brought you in, convinced them to let you see me and have me perform the Mental-Status Examination instead?"

Grissom nodded again. "That is the gist of it."

"Gil, you know that at your age it is very important to drink plenty of fluids, especially on a hot day."

He felt himself nod again, a short bob of the head.

"The older we get, the more susceptible we are to dehydration and heat stroke, the more adversely it affects us. Dehydration can have serious consequences."

"I know." His words were soft. He glanced down and waited for the doctor to ask him what he was thinking, just as Catherine had done.

"I'm not going to ask what you were thinking."

Grissom glanced up at that.

Dr. Cochrane shrugged. "I'm sure that will come out more clearly during the MSE, and this way, you won't have to try to rationalize anything. In my opinion, behavior shouldn't be subjected to rationalizations. We're rarely honest about our behavior, particularly to ourselves."

"Are you a psychologist now?" The words came out short and caused Dr. Cochrane to glance at him. Two years ago, he might have said something to soothe the outburst over. Two years ago, he wouldn't have said the words at all. He didn't move to take the words back, though. He wanted to rationalize his behavior. He wanted to pretend that the only reason for not having anything to drink that day was so that he wouldn't be making a million humiliating bathroom stops.

"I think I know you well enough to make an assessment on what your instincts would be. You trust me enough to have me run the MSE."

Grissom let out a sigh and nodded.

"I also want to give you an abbreviated physical?" It came out as a question. Dr. Cochrane was asking his permission.

He sighed again and shrugged.

"We'll be taking up enough time with the MSE. We can book a more thorough one for later."

"Alright."

He thought about Catherine in the waiting room and frowned. "I have a colleague waiting. I should let her know what is going on, inform her that I might be awhile."

Dr. Cochrane nodded. "Is she the colleague who brought you into Desert Palms?"

He nodded.

"So she knows the reason for this visit?"

"Yes."

"And you see her as part of your support system?"

He nodded. Catherine had forced her way into being his support system.

"If you'd prefer, I can go over what we'll be doing so that she will have an indication of how long we'll be, with your permission of course. I would only reveal what you would consent to."

Grissom thought about how much information would be needled out of him later. He closed his eyes and sighed. "You can tell her everything."

"I'll ask her in. What is your colleague's name?"

"Catherine Willows."

Grissom watched as Dr. Cochrane exited the office, and then reentered with Catherine in tow. Catherine glanced at him, eyes wide, before taking the seat next to his. Her eyes moved between him and the doctor. "Is there something wrong?"

Dr. Cochrane shook his head. "Not at all, Ms. Willows."

Grissom glanced at the doctor before turning to Catherine. "I wanted you to know that I would be awhile, so you don't have to bother waiting around."

Catherine waved her hand in a dismissing motion. "Stop being ridiculous." She paused and then turned to the doctor. "Why will it be awhile?"

Grissom watched as Dr. Cochrane smiled reassuringly. "When my receptionist told me the Dr. Grissom was coming in and I looked at what the hospital had sent over, I had my receptionist book and extra appointment block."

"Why? Gil was already booked for a longer appointment. Why add the extra slot?"

"While I am only authorized to run an abbreviated Mental-Status Examination, given that I am neither a psychiatrist nor a psychologist, I will be going into more depth than the mini Mental-Status Exam, which I believe is a good measure of cognition, but does not go into enough depth in Dr. Grissom's case. Given that, it will take some time. I'm also going to do an abbreviated physical and I want to run him through the Geriatric Depression Scale…"

"Wait, Geriatric Depression Scale? Geriatric? Grissom isn't that old."

"Ms. Willows, while there is no number we can apply to the term elderly in any concrete terms, given that there are so many factors that affect aging, sixty-five is commonly recognized as a number by which to begin measuring factors that affect the elderly. Depression increases significantly after the age of sixty-five."

"Grissom's depression doesn't have anything to do with his age. It comes from bereavement. He lost his wife. If you had seen them together…"

"Ms. Willows," the doctor cut in gently. "I am well aware of Dr. Grissom's loss. I have seen them together. Age has a way of hindering how we deal with loss. Over time, losses accumulate, people see changes they didn't expect to see, they lose a sense of self, it is all part of aging. Dr. Grissom suffered a great loss, I know, and the Geriatric Depression Scale is the best tool I have for screening his possible depression. It was designed for people over the age of sixty-five and Dr. Grissom is nearing sixty-six. Unfortunately for our fragile egos, I am not qualified to run the Hamilton Test."

Grissom listened to the words float between the two of them with his eyes closed. It was like he was no longer in the room, or had no stake in the conversation. It was between the two of them. He was a ghost. Catherine, the ever staunch defender had taken his place, as though he was incapable of defending himself against the ugly truths Dr. Cochrane was bringing up. Not that he would have defended himself. He was old, despite what Catherine wanted to believe. It gave him a sort of smug feeling for the doctor to confirm what he'd been telling Catherine. The confirmation also stung.

He kept his eyes closed and let their words wash right through him. It didn't matter what they said. It had been his choice to let her in, to allow the doctor to let her in.

"Alright." Catherine's voice was soft, conceding.

"It is my best option. We both want to use whatever tool we can to help him, isn't that right?"

Catherine said nothing for a long moment. Grissom could imagine her nodding. "It's like he's disappearing," she whispered.

Disappearing. He felt it too, only he knew he wasn't. He was still there, sort of. He still held on to all the knowledge he'd accumulated, he was still at home with bugs, still able to look at and conceive of beauty, still full of so much love for Sara. None of that had disappeared. It had been buried beneath everything else that had accumulated, sorrow, despair, guilt, regret, anger. Was he still there, or had too much of him become buried?

"Gil?" His head snapped up and he realized he'd missed out on what they'd closed out in saying. He looked at the doctor and waited.

"You can head over to the exam room right next door and we can get started."

He nodded and stood, wincing as a slight pain shot through his hip. Ignoring the looks from both Catherine and Dr. Cochrane, he marched past them, out the door and into another.

Dr. Cochrane came in behind him and sat across from him, a notepad in his hand. "I see you were hobbling a bit coming in here. Something the matter?"

There was a moment where he felt the defensive instinct to say no. Instead, he sighed. "My hip has been sore the past couple of days."

"Did you hurt it passing out the other day?"

He shook his head. The truth was far more humiliating, but he revealed it anyways. "I slipped in the shower."

He waited to see what the response would be. Dr. Cochrane merely nodded. "We'll check it out later. I want to get started with the MSE first, alright?"

He sighed. "Alright."

"Gil, can you tell me the date?"

"Four hundred and thirty five days since Sara died," he whispered.

"I'm sorry?"

Fourteen months, nine days. Sara had died on May 20th, the year before. He shook his head. "July 29th."

"And the year?"

"2022."

He could name the day of the week, do the math calculations asked of him, name the country, the city, the neighborhood, the building, the floor, hell even the room number they were in. He could recall the names of objects said to him and do all of the tasks asked of him and it was frustrating to have to go through all of it. It made him irritable.

"Gil, there is nothing wrong with your cognition."

He nodded. That he knew. He'd been doing cognition tests on himself for awhile.

"What did you have for breakfast this morning?"

Grissom's head snapped up. The question had stunned him momentarily and he was relieved to have a good answer for it. He stared at the doctor. "Eggs Florentine."

He watched as Dr. Cochrane raised a brow. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Did you and your colleague go out for breakfast before coming here?"

"No. I made them."

"Really? From scratch?"

"Yes."

The doctor frowned and Grissom returned the frown. "If you don't believe me, you can always ask Catherine to go and look in my fridge. I'm sure she would relish the opportunity."

Dr. Cochrane shook his head. "No, Gil, I believe you. Your appearance suggests you haven't been eating very well though. To be perfectly honest, you look thin and gaunt and far older than your chronological age."

Grissom looked down.

"Are these your regular eating habits?"

Making good meals from scratch? Not anymore. Lately it had been whatever is around that he didn't have to prepare, if he remembered to eat at all. Pop tarts. He closed his eyes and shook his head. "No."

The questions got harder, and as they moved along, the more Grissom wanted to conceal the answers. He felt defensive and frustrated and irritable. Some of the questions made him anxious or uncomfortable. _How are you sleeping? How do you feel most days?_ How did the doctor think he would feel? Old. Alone. Empty, like half of his self was missing. He fought responding to the questions, but after several short remarks, he resigned himself to answering, though he could not look at the doctor as he did so.

"Do your dreams ever feel so real that you are not sure if you are awake or asleep?"

Grissom stopped. His eyes shot to the doctors, and he could feel panic welling up. His pulse began to race and he struggled to breathe. There was a sting in his chest as it began to throb. Bending forward, he tried to focus on his breaths and felt a warm hand on his back. "It's okay, Gil, don't answer that. I think I know the answer."

There was something cool on his chest, and then on his back and he realized the doctor was listening to his rapid heart beat. "You need to calm down, Gil. Try to take slow, even breaths."

He nodded and tried to think of something else. Something good. Sara. Sara up north, picking huckleberries in the bush, having joined him on a trip to a somewhat remote part of southern British Columbia in Canada, where he'd gone to study the mountain pine beetle. Sara's delighted smile in discovering the slopes of the mountainous region were littered with huckleberries, the bushes stretching for miles. Her sparkling eyes. Her wide grin. Her scent mingling with the fresh mountain air. Her fingers painted blue and purple from picking the berries. Her mouth tasting of the sweetness of the fruit. The stains she'd put on his shirt as she'd grasped his waist to draw his body to hers.

His breathing slowed until he felt he wasn't fighting to take air in. He thought back to another time, before they got together, before he thought he could take the risk. He'd always feared what would become of him if he lost her. He'd feared what would happen if he allowed himself to be with her. He'd almost known what would happen, how it would obliterate them, one of them, or the other, or both. Their mutual destruction. She'd escaped it. He was the only one destroyed.

"Gil?"

He looked up to Dr. Cochrane, his eyebrows raised.

"I think I've asked enough questions. I'm going to begin the physical now."

He nodded, relieved. It would be humiliating to have someone look over the body he no longer recognized as his own, liver spots, loose skin and all, but it was a welcome reprieve from the questions. Besides, he still had to run through the Geriatric Depression Scale questionnaire.

The appointment was exhausting. By the time he got to the questionnaire, he was so tired, he only wanted to crawl into bed and keep the company of his dreams. The yes and no questions made him weary and he knew answering each one only led to his being placed in the severely depressed category. He handed back the questionnaire.

"Gil, you need to seek some kind of help. Your health is suffering because of your depression. The changes over the past year and a half since your last check up are enough to startle anyone. Your blood pressure is low. Your heart rate is irregular. You've been afflicted with a serious illness and you need help." Dr. Cochrane paused and looked at him. "I'm not going to put you on anything, because anti-depressants at your age can have serious consequences. You are more vulnerable to side effects, particularly with SSRIs. Now, if I prescribe something for your blood pressure, or for your heart, that in turn can exacerbate your depression. The best thing you can do is take better care of yourself. Eat properly, drink plenty of fluids, get some exercise, talk to somebody, join a support group or gather a support system around yourself, go do something you like doing. You should be able to turn your health and mood problems around. If not, we'll have to consider other options."

Grissom nodded in acknowledgement. He knew what he had to do. Whether or not he chose to do those things was another matter. At the moment, he just wanted to leave, go home, put the emotionally exhausting afternoon behind him.

"Make sure you schedule a follow-up on your way out, Gil. I will be checking with my receptionist to ensure you've done so."


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: **Again, I am sorry about the delay. My mind has been on school and hockey, and when it was on this, it was on rewriting every word I had already wrote down. This is it, the final chapter. I'm a little worried about the way I ended it. Hopefully people can appreciate it. I do want to thank everybody for sticking with this. It wasn't an easy one to write, so thank you. For everybody who reviewed, you made this so much easier.

**XV**

The house was quiet and hot and dark. He toed off his shoes and slipped inside, away from the expectations of his doctor and of his friend, searching only for peace in his solitude, a peace that would evermore be denied him because of that same solitude. Catherine had done nothing more than elicit a promise of dinner with her and Vartann later in the week before she'd dropped him off, but her darting eyes and concerned and tender expression had him seeking escape. Arriving home to his empty house, the quiet offered only a fraction of solace.

His hands held his mail, three weeks worth, ignored until then, and the few items fit comfortably in his hand. Shuffling slowly over to the sofa, he let his too thin body slide onto the cushions, the skin on the backs of his arms sticking in the mid summer heat. He moved to plop the flyers on the table, but something wedged between the flyers caught his eye and he found himself staring at it, his head cocked to the side.

Reaching slowly, his fingers plucked the white envelope out. He held it in his hands and turned it over, examining it, trying to remember when he last saw one. He couldn't remember. It felt almost foreign to him. Everything was electronic those days, bills, bank statements, letters. He could forget about his mail for weeks and miss nothing but a few sales, advertised in flyers, coupons the only constant in the dwindling regular mail, the need for bargains, still intact. Staring at the envelope, he let him self drift back, remembering the days when he had to wade through miles and miles of paper and mail, only a fraction his own, the rest belonging to the countless victims, whose homes he'd processed. How could something once so familiar feel so foreign now? He sighed. So much of the once familiar had become so foreign lately.

Grissom shook his head and rubbed at his temples. He flipped the envelope once more and glanced at the return address. The envelope bore the University of Washington seal. Though he knew it was another offer he was going to decline, or rather, ignore, he opened the envelope anyway. It was from the College of the Environment, and just as he had suspected, it was an offer to speak at the College, or, if he so choose, to conduct his own seminar. He'd already ignored two emails to that effect, but for some reason, the College had persisted.

He cast the letter aside. He could just picture himself flying up to Seattle, hobbling around, the cool rain causing his joints to ache. He could almost see himself standing in front of a group of young students, the old, wrinkled man, skin hanging from his bones, liver spots causing a repulsive distraction, the others in the room, the unfortunate attendees, trying to avert their eyes and listen to him discuss the importance of rebuilding fragile ecosystems because the subject was important and the past several years had made that very evident. He could imagine his eyes wandering over the two or twenty or two hundred people who had signed on to hear him speak and see himself searching the room for her. He would find her, just as he found her everyday, and he would lose himself in her, in her memory, in the haunting way her memory followed him around, in the way he sought her out in everything, and he would see her as he had twenty-four years before, young and smiling, slacks and sleeveless blouse, hair tied back, eyes glowing, head cocked amusingly to the side. It would bring him back several years and the need to see her, to remember her, would permit him to believe she was really there, to believe he hadn't conjured her up in his need. Then, he would lose himself in the years and become confused and agitated and he would falter. He would hear Dr. Cochrane's voice telling him it wasn't dementia, just depression, a very severe depression, and he would know that the doctor was wrong; it wasn't depression but destruction. His sole destruction or his soul destruction, or perhaps both. Humiliated, standing before an audience as embarrassed as he, he would only gain a measure of comfort in the smug feeling that he would get when he remembered telling Catherine what a bad idea he thought this was, the same smug feeling he got whenever he'd proved her wrong and confirmed himself right. Then, after moments of awkwardness, where he would be unaware of everything but that brief satisfaction, the smug feeling would disappear, his thoughts and his worries would disappear, and he would realize that he felt a consuming need to go to the bathroom. He would check his watch as he rushed from the lecture hall and would realize that the lecture had barely begun.

His eyes closed and his head fell back against the sofa. He told himself not to think about her, not to conjure her up, not to let himself believe that she was there, but in trying not to think about her, all he could think about was her. She fell so seamlessly into his thoughts. _Don't fall into this trap._

Sleeping would not be a good idea, not with the dreams of her waiting in his subconscious. It had frightened him earlier, discovering he had spent an entire morning in the company of nobody and had made a breakfast for no one. Nick had caught him talking to himself, to his empty room, his empty house, his dead wife, and he'd barely managed to cover for himself. He felt embarrassed and angry, angry with Nick for intruding on his refuge, but angrier with himself for losing that sense of control he once kept so tight to his breast. He hadn't felt in control since Sara had left. Since then, control had been exchanged for illusion and now he was afraid he was going lose himself in it, when unreality becomes reality. He'd known he'd scraped by in the doctor's appointment, suspended on the edge of something more than a very severe and dangerous depression. He felt as though he'd somehow managed to manufacture his lucidity, staying in the present when it would have been so easy to fade into to the past. He'd rather be where Sara still existed and found himself willing to lose himself in the fabrication, and that terrified him. He was still sound enough to recognize that fear, the fear of losing his self, or of losing it more than he already had. He was caught between falling away into his memories of her and clinging to his last sense of self, his last shred of dignity still important.

He also didn't want to feel any more pain, at least not that afternoon. The doctor's appointment, as well as exhausting, had left him reeling in his emotional pain. Each question, to which he'd responded, verbally, or on paper, had been a shot to his gut, his solar plexus, his kidneys, his heart. It hurt too much, and though he would find sweet relief in dreams of Sara, it would only be temporary. He would hurt more when he awoke and realized he lost her again. The pain of her loss was so much more acute when it was fresh, and his inability to move on, even the slightest bit, from her death, had him feeling that fresh wave of excruciating pain several times a day, particularly when he imagined her with him again. After the appointment he'd had, he was hesitant to take that chance.

Luckily for him, his bladder offered him the reprieve. Perhaps a ballad to the aging prostate wasn't such a bad idea. _You keep me in the here and now._ His mind wasn't caught in any traps when relieved himself. He had no significant memories of Sara peeing.

Emptying himself, he flushed that wonderful porcelain bowl and washed his hands. His eyes caught his reflection in the mirror, and he stared. It still surprised him how thin he looked and how sallow his complexion was.

He held up his arm. His forearm curled up, though he did not flex his muscles. Instead, staring down at his arm, he took his finger and poked at the hanging skin, watching it rock back and forth. While there was quite a bit of loose skin, there was no fat billowing in the bottom to keep up the momentum, and he watched, without much more than a curious expression, as his skin stilled to a halt. Not a pendulum. Pinching the skin between his index finger and his thumb, he lifted the skin higher, let go, and watched it rock back and forth and slow to a halt once more. Eyes fixed in the mirror this time, he did it again. The result was the same. All of the fat he'd put on over the years, had all but disappeared. His muscles had atrophied. He looked down. He occupied roughly half of the space he'd occupied a year and a half before. His cloths were all too large. They hung on him in the same way his skin did. If he were to accept an offer to speak at the University of Washington, he would have nothing to wear. He hadn't shopped for cloths since Sara left; appearances hadn't seemed important. Mostly in sweats and jeans these days, he'd been relying on a belt or a drawstring to hold his pants in place.

He stared forward and pictured himself at the lecture hall again. His suit would hang on him. He would not be able to fill out the shirt, or the jacket, and the effect would bring about an image reminiscent of Harpo Marx. His pants would sag and bag, giving his bottom half a Chaplin-esque look. He would not have a belt that would be small enough for his now much diminished waist-line, and so he would decide to pierce a hole a few inches further in than the inside hole. He would not have a leather punch to pierce the hole with, and so, would dig into the leather with a sharp-tipped knife, carving out his own hole. Real classy. The end of the belt wouldn't reach the side belt loop, and so it would hang, flapping around as he moved. Any questions about his lucidity would be answered with that image. Of course, he could purchase a smaller belt, or rather, a smaller suit, but the cost would run him his entire speaking fee, and so he would need to speak just to afford the suit he'd bought to speak in that one time. The man who owned his own tuxedo was now too cheap to think about affording such a luxury as a new suit.

Then again, he could always wear the tux. He could have it taken in just enough, an expense not too extravagant for a man who owned his own tux. The tux, when he spoke, could give him an air of elitism, or some other form of aloofness. He could come off as eccentric rather than crazy, though when the confusion and agitation inevitably struck, the students would come to a new conclusion. _When the evidence changes, so must the theory._ They would listen politely, indulgently, like most of the characters listened to Teddy in _Arsenic and Old Lace, _and then he would ask if there were any questions and the lecture hall would be filled with an uncomfortable silence. The students would shift in their seats much the same way he shifted before them, and they would leave without asking any questions. He would feel only relief as he left to search for a restroom. He definitely was not going to lecture any time soon.

Grissom shook his head, wondering at the path of his thoughts. It was like a strange dream where the absurd conquers the rational and he does something he is quite sure he would never do, like lecture in an ill-fitting suit. He shook his head again. It wasn't that absurd. When was the last time he felt he had a suit that fit. _Before Sara left_.

Finishing up in the washroom and paced around the condo, unsure of what to do. Agitated, he walked around the living room until his hip felt too sore to continue, and then he took a seat.

He could not still his restlessness. He fidgeted in his seat, shifting around, wondering what he could do. He glanced at his laptop, but knew he was too distracted to make even an attempt at working. A book was out, as was a crossword, as he doubted they could hold his attention for very long. Instead, he flipped on the television and browsed through the channels, searching for something mindless to view.

It was a documentary on the flooding of Singapore that stilled him. He sat back on the sofa and absorbed the images of rising water swallowing much of the coastal structures of the low-lying city, burying the smaller structures, and giving the rest of the area the look of Venice. Soon enough, he felt himself nodding off, his eyes flickering closed, yawns consuming his brain and he remembered how exhausting his day had been. He was tempted to fall asleep where he was, the low voice of the narrator soothing him to sleep, but knew it would cause him great discomfort to fall asleep on the couch. Rising up, he slowly padded to his room and lay down, pulling Sara into his arms.

He woke some time later to the whisper of a touch on his eyelids and against his brow. "Sara," he whispered, smiling softly in his semi-conscious state. His eyes still closed, he lost himself in her touch as it moved, so softly, over down his cheeks and nose and across his lips. Breathing deeply, he smiled again when he felt the texture of her lips pressing lightly against his. Her fingertips carved gently through his hair, tracing over his scalp. Then, the touch disappeared. Frowning, he turned on his side, seeking out the touch again. His hands landed on the soft skin of her sides, and he let his fingers glide up and down. Her fingers slid over his eyelids again, down his nose, and over his open lips. His eyes flickered open. He stared forward and began blinking repeatedly.

"You're here."

She smiled softly. "Yeah."

Her fingers slid over his cheeks. He shuffled towards her, at the same time, tugging her to him. His eyes closed and opened again. He blinked some more.

"Are you alright?" she asked, softly. "Did something happen?"

He blinked again. "No, I mean yeah, I'm alright." He shook his head, trying to clear the fog. "Sorry. Just a really bad dream, I think." He paused. "You're here?"

Sara smiled again, snuggling against his chest. "Of course I'm here." She paused and looked up at him. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head and pressed his lips to hers, smiling when she grinned against them. His fingers edged towards her back and danced lightly along her naked torso. He kissed her again and tried to blink back the tears in his eyes before Sara saw them.

He was too late. Her fingers came up and tenderly wiped at the tears. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"You are here, Sara?"

"I am here."

"I'm okay, then. No, I'm happy."

Sara shuffled away from him slightly, though still within his reach. She stared at him, her head cocked slightly, concern in her eyes. "Did you dream I wasn't coming?"

He shook his head and took advantage of their distance to take in her lovely, delicate form. "No, not exactly." He pulled her back into his arms and held her tight, squeezing her against his chest. He buried his head in her shoulder.

"I'm right here, Gil."

He pressed himself closer, tucking one of his legs between hers. "You are." Entwined with her, he took a few deep breaths and let his nightmare drift away, hopefully to the forgotten, though he knew it wasn't likely. He closed his eyes and trying to burn in the memory of her soft touch waking him. Then, he concentrated on the feel of her, pressed against him. "You're here," he whispered again. He lifted his head. "And you are deliciously naked."

Sara grinned. "It took you long enough to notice."

He smirked and flipped them so that he was above her. His mouth moved over hers. Her fingers combed through his hair. He pulled back. "Oh, I noticed. It isn't every day a beautiful, nude woman crawls into my bed while I'm asleep."

"It better not be."

Grissom leaned down and pressed his lips, briefly, to hers. "It should be a more common occurrence though. I love waking to your touch."

Sara closed her eyes and hummed. Her eyes opened again and she stared up at him. Her fingers lifted to his face. "I couldn't resist."

He smiled. "Don't. Don't ever try to resist." His head fell forward. "You're really here? I'm not going to wake up and find you gone?" He felt her fingers sift through the hair on the top of his head. He lifted his face to hers.

"Must have been some nightmare."

He could only nod.

"What is it going to take for you to believe me?"

"Just keep touching me."

Her hands moved over him, across his back, along his sides. He pressed himself to her, his lips tracing a path down from her chin. He made love to her slowly, staring down at her the entire time. Pulling her sweaty body into his, he wrapped his arms around her and told her of a recent offer he got to go speak.

"You should go," she whispered, her eyes falling closed. He smiled and kissed her brow. _He should go, _he thought and he watched her drift to sleep, gazing down at her face in peace and her eyelids fluttering delicately.

Sleep wasn't coming to him, though. Even with her there beside, him, he felt restless. Worried he would wake her, he pulled away and left her to sleep peacefully beside him. Tucking his arms behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling, trying to think of a way to fall back asleep.

His mind went through the crossword from the day before. Eleven down, Dust Bowl Troubadour: Guthrie, fourteen across, Chapter of Quran: Surah, twenty-three down, Gaelen's yellow humor: choleric, forty-seven across, Ishmael's vessel: Pequod, fifty-one down, French Chanteuse: Piaf, sixty-eight down, Lincoln's Secretary of War ___ Stanton: Edwin, seventy-one across, Genus of insects including the Cochineal: Coccus, seventy-three across, Allahabad's river: Ganges, eighty-three down, Author __ Richler: Mordecai, eighty-nine across, Contrary to the general rule: abnormal, ninety across, American Naval Commodore in the Philippines: Dewey, ninety-two down, Abraham in _Amadeus_: Salieri.

Fuck.


End file.
